Self portrait
 
An octive too high
 
Slow melt
 
     
You fester in her pretending
to be a breeze of
possibility, of duty, of love
and promising connections, expecting relief,
teaching fake modesty and sexual softness.

Monstrous,
you lurk in small crevices –
between toes, beside the prefect curve
of a breast confined in satin.

You (an idea! an accepted standard!) dictate orders
to her body parts, speak words
from her mouth, gather personality,
masculinity, interests and intelligence
and transform them into a
Woman:

planning and executing
a coup d’etat,
hormones encased in sugar
that are overstepping nature.

Before you,
a parasitic notion,
this granted expectation
that condones the rape
of individuality until
your vessel sit still,
forcing the smiles of conformity,
before you twisted yourself
around self-conscious thought,
echoing the fireworks of neurons
so closely that no one could tell you were there,
She is patient. pretty. Persistent.
A battle ends with your defeat
and she remembers how to scream,
flinging anger at the walls,
splashing innocence (not lost,
but rather ignored, given up on, discarded, all by you)
across the floor –
she spreads out proof of herself
as a foundation to walk upon,
to ground in, to wade through,
to root in.
She, a prophet with no God,
is capable of hearing your frequencies
when no one else detects you,
suspects you, or your existence –
she believes in you,
relieved in your presence from
the effort of being real
and deafened slightly
by the sound of you,
her reddening resistance balls together,
forming a precise sphere of rage,
a sun shining
through the cracks of a cage.
She fades, whitening to receive
your color, purifying to acquire
your sins, yet continues singing –
now too high even for you,
she speaks to God
or to sanity,
with words meaning nothing.
She watches her own conversion
into womanhood, into female tastes,
into complacency with being dominated
by what is placed between her thighs,
by an extraneous rib –
Estatic peace
Poem by eileen browning