Some of the people I see are covered in shitty tattoos. Bad shading, cliché ideas and me with my contradictory half assed work of the symbol for life, death and my name in Egyptian Hieroglyph. When I woke up this morning, I thought about how hot it was in my room and how sweaty I was underneath my blankets and the sun burning through the openings of my blinds and curtains in my room. And realizing that it's about 10 degrees outside. And then I remembered that despite my painted nails and face, my shitty tattoo and my dirty mouth are unwavering testaments to the fact that I'll never be some kind of lady. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the mornings, I paint myself up. I stare the mirror down, eyes level with those in my reflection and smudge the lines and colors into something else. Shiny lips, black eyelashes. I scoop up grease with my fingers, get it caught under my nails and run it over my hair. I smile, or grimace, I've found it doesn't really matter as the feelings behind the actions are quite often the same. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There have actually been times when I've gotten hassled on the street. "Hey baby, you fine," lips smacked, eyebrows raised. I've stopped shuddering, I just keep my head down. I'm far from a prude, but, some people actually disgust me and make me asshamed or myself. I'm trying to develop a second skin, an outer shell that will prevent such things from disturbing my atmosphere. But, I still have low self esteem. And there are times when I look in the mirror and wish I were as pretty as someone else. Anyone else. Every day I pluck and pull at my eyebrows to see how it's coming along. The red marks quickly turn purple--I still bruise just as easy. I like to think that all this grime has affected my voice. Deepened it out, smoothed it over, removed the "likes" and mispronunciations from my run-on speech. But that remains to be seen. But, be that as it may I really have no shame. I guess. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The people here like to take off their shoes and wear hardly any clothing. I guess they're free or something, but staring at their dirty skin, I just want them to put on some socks or a sweater. I keep my legs crossed and my chest covered. I look up, but have nothing to say. I hate the way I look most of the time. But, I've grown to deal with the fact that I will never be beautiful, no matter how much I paint my face and my nails. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sometimes I don't like being a girl. Sitting there with a tampon buried in between layers of flesh and muscle, worrying about what article of clothing the blood is going to stain next. Sometimes I feel like the blood is evidence that I'm alive, pumping out and proving that I can create in the basest sense, that all will never be lost as long as my uterus continues to shed its lining and smear the insides of my thighs. And sometimes i think I'd rather scar my skin with another tattoo, keep the blood isolated but still oozing, easily wiped away and inconsequential in the face of permanent black ink staring back at me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The blood comes from inside, always trying to push itself out through my skin, my eyes. My ears and nose and mouth bleed now and then and I can feel it. I wipe it away and rub my dirty hands on my frilly skirt, staining it on purpose because, it's just the truth, I'm no kind of lady. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ by: Cori ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Artist note: This is another poem by a friend of mine that I liked. the end is has metaphors in it... "Please excuse some of that vulgarity toward the end." But I'm pretty sure that we have all felt that way... if you're a women that is. And this picture that I drew to go with the poem is all about the look in her eyes... how there's no real hate for what she is... nor is there exseptance. She is only there... or here to do nothing... but be. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Poem copyright by Cori and Art work copyright by Siobhan... They are both originals, so please don't steal them.