spun sugar, verbatim

there are women
that care
for sex and make-up
dinner and drinks
and all things shiny and new.

i see their practiced joy,
their easy poise,
and I am pummeled
by a thousand tiny fists
of knock knock knocking jealousy.

i
am ill at ease,
awkward and terse,
and i am not sure
that i was

ever

so free.

all i can say is
"this book or that,"
"today in the gym,"
or "once, when i was swimming."
otherwise,
my tongue is heavy in my mouth;
my face burns and armpits sweat
with ugly
(not to mention rank)
desperation-
a longing for assimilation.

sadly, i never did learn
the fine art of inane chatter
and thus am verbally obese,
lumbering through nights,
conversations equivalent to french pastries
where someone says,
"i love this or that,"
and i can't help
but face plant
into the sweetie sweet sweet
icing of the conversation
with tales of woe,
"this scar? on my arm?
i was 17,"
ever the conversationally fat girl,
cumbersome and wildly inappropriate.

once upon a time,
a decade or so ago, these women,
often frivolous,
but just as often content,
pained my
ever
lasting
soul.
i was bitter, judgmental,
surely superior.
but, now, i long
to be so easily amused,
so ready and able
to wile away the hours
with dreams of
white picket fences
manis and pedis,
and, "oh girl,
did you see?!"
eyes wide, hand to mouth,
"i know. i just could not believe."

Instead,
I wrestle
with the god of levity,
begging for a blessing.
instead,
i am heavy as Hitler's heart,
attempting to dance
while wearing concrete shoes.