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

unfilled.

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

before

she’s lost

everything.