August 5, 2018

I think I am “all that and a bag of chips”

Then I see a picture,

And I look

That

Fat.

It doesn’t look like me,

The me I see.

Who can write poetry 

From pain to a painted breeze.

Or find laughter in my punniest soliloquy.

What about the deep incisions 

Into my treasure chest of kindness;

Shared to the souls I most 

Tenderly connect?

Or my special declarations of wonder and love

In forms of caresses and hugs?

Who made it so I looked too different

From the woman I know inside.

It can’t have been that many kneaded scars

To fill the body glove.

The softness of the lining

Is altogether shining

Like a galaxy of silk

With stars of balled up cotton;

I’m comfortable to touch.

Your gifted secrets not forgotten;

To all those persons who’ve confided,

I hold your hearts when life’s too much.

Moments in selfish anger and impatient frustration

Couldn’t be the fault of this.

You see me as a rose,

With very little thorns.

I hoped to be the calla lily,

Offering cups of gentle compassion,

But maybe 

I am 

Both.

It matters,

My appearance,

My authenticity.

For it matters,

What you comprehend,

The me I know,

Or the me I really am.