Saturday, April 5, 2014

It's not beautiful (but it's true)

A number of conversations recently have led me to think about this poem.  (It's kind of conceited to want to quote your own poem in polite conversation, isn't it?  I thought so).  It has been in various stages of writing and reworking for quite some time now, and I'm never happy with it.  I'm still not quite to the "happy with it" point, but it needs to be retired to make way for newer, better work that I CAN write to the point of satisfaction.  I think, in part, I don't like it because I wish I could write the content differently with some sort of Hollywood happy ending...but that won't happen.  And -- when and if that can happen -- that moment deserves its own poem, don't you think?

So here is the poem, in its final resting incarnation.  It's not beautiful, but it is true.

Fuchsia Dress

When you told me I’m unlovable
did you mean I lack the qualities you can love?
Or did you mean
I’m just not worthy?

I know you won't tell me,
I just want to put my nightmares to rest and
find my confident, inner self that's been missing.
I 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

It seems like it's time to
tell my soul she can venture out now:
show the world her 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 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.
She 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
so 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 if my
fuchsia-wearing, worm-saving, mascara-running soul is truly unlovable--

I just want to let her know
she’s lost


  1. Beautiful and decidedly lovable. Just like you.

  2. Some people are missing the gift of fuchsia sight. In other words, they can't see fuchsia when it's right in front of their eyes. Poor assholes. Just because someone can't see your beauty doesn't mean it's not there.