I plant my feet in the thick brown earthen paint.
I feel it seep in between my toes.
I feel good for a little while.
Then the thick layer hardens and grows heavy.
It’s natural; crystalline.
And some even say it has the power to heal yet I grow ill
Tempered with time I become dirty.
Take it back to basics and it’s just dirt and water.
Put it in a tile lined tub next to seaweed raps and sugar scrubs
Does it somehow become less unclean?
Dear Kissy Face,
I reject your proposal.
I will not smile and nod and pretend that its cute.
It isn’t. We both know you aren’t really interested in me.
You want me the way a five year old wants
the sparkly red heels in the thrift store window.
She knows they won’t fit and only in the mind
of that five year old can she wear them with anything.
I don’t want you either.
The man of my dreams won’t whistle at me across a parking lot or
blow kissy faces at me from a moving car.
The man of my dreams will speak to me.
He will say actual words. Maybe
they will come in the form of a cheesy pick-up line
or maybe it will be a simple Hello.
Either way he isn’t you.
So please understand when I say that I am not rolling my eyes at you.
I am rolling my eyes at a world that thinks that
these few wasted seconds are anything other than rude.
The girl who is done playing along.
I want to be bullet proof glass…
Multiple individual and separate
Sheets clear in the picture they present,
None obscuring the other yet
Together they provide a single
frame obvious in its clarity.
It seems obvious
the magic we hold.
It’s almost amazing,
the way men haven’t figured it out yet.