Fuschia (or some other title that fits better)

I wrote this poem a while ago, and really didn't like it when I wrote it. Since then, I've come to not only like it, but am kind of obsessed with it. (Is it pompous to be obsessed with ones own poem?) When I wrote it, I couldn't decide if it read as a depressing poem or a kickass "speaking back" poem. I've decided it's more speaking back--or at least, that's how I want it to read, with some uncertainty, because...well...that's true to life. I hate coming up with titles, and a title for this one particularly eludes me. I've tried "Fuschia Dresses" and "Tell me I'm not beautiful" and "Imperfect" and just "Fuschia," but none of them fit like I want them to. I am open to suggestions. ;)

This is one of the first pieces that I have ever read aloud in front of people (given, it was 2 people, but that's still people!), and it was a pretty much a fantastic empowerment moment.

Fuschia (or some other title that fits better)

When you told me I’m unlovable
did you mean I do not possess
qualities you can love
or did you mean
I’m just not worthy?
I ask, not because I
care or
think about you or
want to know, I just
want to put my nightmares to rest and
find my confident, inner self that is
missing. I just
want to know what was in your mind so I
can make sense of the
insanity,
find some reason why this
empty, aching hole is still
unfilled.
It’s not that it hurts me, I just
want to try remembering the
possibility of my worth because
walking around in a body, unlovable, with a mind,
unworthy,
is just a damn
heavy
load.

It’s not that it matters, I just
want to know so I can
tell my soul she can
come out of lock down and
don her long fuchsia dress because,
whether you know it or not
my soul
wears long, fuchsia dresses.

Did you know my soul wears fuchsia dresses?

Not that you care, but maybe
you should know that
my soul is
divinely feminine. She
exudes confidence as she
saves worms from the sidewalk after a rain
rescues spiders with her bare hands
crochets dishtowels for fun and
wades in creeks to connect with her god.
This soul flounces her
fuchsia skirt as she
rejects conformity and
stays so strong she
bites her nails and
wipes mascara from under her
tear-stained eyes, this soul
wears fuchsia
even when she thinks she can’t, even
when her body shakes from the
injustice of this world and the
rage she can neither name
nor contain
this soul
is imperfect
and I would be lying if I said

it’s not that
it means everything to me, just
please
I dare you to
look at me again and
tell me I’m not loveable.
Touch this fuchsia soul
and tell me I’m not beautiful,
tell me I’m not confident because

this soul stumbles over words in conversations and
blushes unnatural shades of red, her
mind is busy with
words no one will read and her
too-sensitive heart shatters and
swells and
loves and
dies
a little each day as she
attempts to live in a mundane world she’ll never
fit into or
understand.
She trips
frequently and
has feet so rough from
walking barefoot they could
sand walls,
this soul
wears fuchsia
to let the world
see her,
so go on and tell me
I’m
not
beautiful.
Look into the
green eyes of this
spider-carrying, poem-constructing,
too-sensitive, blushing spirit
and tell me I
will never be loved, because it’s

not that it matters, but if my
fuchsia-wearing
worm-saving
mascara-running
soul is truly
unlovable, I just
want to let her know
before
she’s lost
everything.