play, pause, replay

i know i can't be Kahlo

"YOU HAVE TO DIE A FEW TIMES BEFORE YOU CAN REALLY LIVE."

- CHARLES BUKOWSKI

*

When I was ten, a guy once pointed at the 

groove under my nose and giggled.

I knew it was another taunt, not the same as they

do with me having small rectangular specs.

This time, it was something else— something 

I didn't realize I'd start hating sometime later too.

The petite brunette staring at me from the

bathroom mirror had the thinnest, an almost 

invisible layer of hair on the dip above her upper lip.

They didn't feel anything under the gentle touch 

of my fingers. But Mama always told 

me nothing is always something. 

I just hoped this didn't turn into a major something.

Almost two years later, I was suddenly thankful

to whoever that's brought Covid. It didn't make me

feel like I was selfish on my part, because honestly,

I wasn't; even if I was, I didn't care about it.

Those tiny pieces of fabric shielding our faces were 

a convenient escape from the faint hairs sprouting on 

my philtrum (yeah, learned that term back in seventh grade).

I felt like I was winning for the first time.

The older guys would no longer be taunting me,

my little house of cards would no longer be 

burning in the cool summer shadows, and that 

made me think of ways I could collect as many masks

as I could—cloth masks and N95 respirators.

The wings of time were sharper than anything.

Fast forward to two years, and the claws came out of

nowhere, the ones I have been dreading forever.

Is there anything I don't want the world to see

when they see me? Yes.

Is there anything I love with the same passion I

hate that major something? Definitely yes.

There were those few faces I wish I'd have never

seen my whole life because even without them

life would've been the way it was, or better.

Because sometimes, they sometimes remind me

that I'm no Frida Kahlo, and you know what 

infuriates me more than that—they ripped the truth

open before anyone else could.

No, I don't hate any of them even though every

morning I wake up, I close my eyes and pray that

I don't have to face them today. I've never felt

this awful, or even something beyond that, whenever

those faces greet me first thing in the morning.

Sometimes, the lotion you use to hide your freckles

or the mask you use to cover your face becomes

something more than being just a lifesaver.

And no, I don't wear poetry on my sleeve.

This room gets smaller and smaller until

every breath of air is choking me, making the

smog curl up against the ceiling. Those faces 

blur against the beige shade, but I could hear

their screams pounding against my ears;

blood rushes achingly slow through my veins.

They won't know about the thin brown hair,

creeping around my philtrum; they won't know

nothing until I'm carrying my burns to my grave.

So I let them kill me slow, so slow I would beg

and come undone, until there's nothing left.