Surrounded by the chaos of my possessions,

Smoke-stained walls plastered with faded photographs;

On the floor stacks of books.

Over the years my room has changed locations, holding me in like thoughts in conversations.

I am here, still;

A nearly empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose in my hand, cigarette burned down to the filter.

 

I am the unwanted gift left behind by men who couldn’t find enough room for the refuse of their lives.

Men who left me alone to drink, wanting a woman who couldn’t or wouldn’t think to match their own lack of substance.

 

I am an outdated model of a mastered game; trapped inside my own body.

There are dark circles under my eyes from too many wasted nights.

 

I am ignorant of abuse;

A happy and willing slave to the next man to notice my stone-blue eyes, the curve of my hip, the movement of my lips as I slowly inhale smoke from my cigarette.

 

Once,

I imagined I was beautiful, a man unwrapped me;

My body, not my mind.

I woke up to an empty bottle and a man I couldn’t remember next to me forcing his hand down my pants as my head spun.

 

I lie here pretending I don’t feel the pain,

Drinking, popping pills, eating chocolate.

I am a living, breathing stereotype, barely able to stand as I pull a pair of jeans over my widening hips, hold in my stomach as I zip myself into costume,

A little eyeliner, face powder, lipstick to complete the task

And I hardly recognize myself underneath this mask

Or remember who I was to begin with.

1993