Normal

In case you don't already know this
I'm superwoman.

No, seriously.
I have the cape and everything.
It's a bright red cape that I like wearing out
on random occasions
my most recent outing to look super?
Trader Joe's.
complete with a black t shirt and a rhinestone pink studded S on the front.
and my screaming fire engine truck red cape.
that I wear in public.
Just because I can.

I saw someone I knew
while pushing my super shopping cart
down aisle 5
and they laughed nervously, as though my sanity was questionable
based on the fact that I was draped in a cape
and asked
"why aren't you normal?"

Normal?
the definition for normal is "conforming to the standard or the common type."
synonym: the average, or mean.

Well I've never been mean
and I was always taught to achieve above average.

but you're talking about normal.
to me.

we live on a ball of molten rock
covered in water and dirt
that is spinning and spinning and spinning
around a giant ball of FIRE.
and you... want to talk to me about normal?

Yes, that makes sense.
because I can walk outside
and see a tiny wormlike caterpillar
that should stay looking like a fuzzy version of my pinky finger
but no
it gorges itself on the energy around
and wraps itself so tight in a cocoon
and REARRANGES IT'S BODY PARTS
and so this tiny little line of black fur
emerges
with delicate wings
so thin that they break if they're touched
but those wings
bear our little caterpillar to the sky
bright blue, shimmering wings
that looks like a piece of the ocean took flight.
and yet, you're standing here talking to me about normal

as one of my peers
you of all people shouldn't want to talk about normal
our generation is better at talking through keyboards and LED screens
than actually holding a face to face conversation
I mean
look at you right now.
you're awkward standing here talking to me
because I don't fit into your definition
of "normal".

Please tell me one person
whose name appears on the pages of a history book
who was called "normal" during their time.
Was Dr. King normal? Was ghandi normal? Aristotle, Julius Cesear, Jane Goodall, Pablo Picasso, Frida Khalo, Barack motherfucking Obama?!
they broke the mold
but who says there is a mold?
everyone is hand crafted
there is no mold
unless you're talking about last week's lunch in the back in the back of your fridge
in which case I can't help you
they were out of the ordinary
extra-ordinary
and I'm not saying that I'll achieve as much as they have
all I'm saying

is you might want to think about your definitions
before you try to define me.

Self Confidence

Start off the night
I know how to do it right
Looking my best
Mmm, I’m gonna turn heads tonight

Doing what I do
Out on the dance floor
Chillin on the wall a while
Or grabbin another drink
It doesn't matter
I know how to move with style

All the girls here can relate
To this next bit
Often found but preferably avoided
The boy with a pick up line.
Did it hurt? When you fell from heaven.
No, but this rejection might sting a little.

It’d be nice to hear
Just a simple introduction
A handshake
Or if you’re like me
A high five
And some simple conversation
No flare
No distractions
Just
You.

I've heard it all.
But last night,
I heard something
That made me stop
And take a good, long, second look.

I had a girl tell me
That she wished she had my self confidence.
Not any particular asset
She wanted to mimic the way I held myself
Presented my outer image
To the other slightly evolved chimpanzees at the party.

And I thought to myself
You want
To have been through all the shit
That has turned me into who I am?
Are you sure about that?
You should be careful what you wish for.

Let’s take it back a minute,
Do me a favor and hit rewind
Let me delve into
The memories of my mind

Back to the one place
I never want to go back to
Where I just wanted to be cool.
Yeah. High school.

You’re telling me that back then
You wanted to be surrounded by girls
That you couldn’t avoid
Because you were on the same sports team

Who constantly told me I wasn’t good enough
I wasn’t pretty enough
I was too “nerdy” because I preferred reading a book
Over fucking a boy in the backseat of a car.
Girls that would act like I was their friend
As a joke.
They knew it was funny to make me feel good about myself
But I never understood the punch line.

You’re telling me that you wanted to work as hard as you could
To get nothing but mocking laughter and a permanent bench seat
To come home crying so many times that it was a mark of a good day
If you could make it home without tearing up
You wanted to be disregarded, disrespected, discouraged from being yourself
You wanted to be dismissed like you were some kind of disease?
No, you don’t want that.
I didn’t either.

But


I learned to take it all in stride
I found some part of me
That knew
Who I was
And I hung on to that notion
Like it was my tether to land
And I was drowning, all alone,
in a sea of plastic girls.
Just trying to keep my head high.

It was a scene cut straight out of mean girls
But I wasn’t in the “in” crowd
I was subject to their rule, their twisted hierarchy
That was built on boobs, boys, and booze
Somebody yell cut, please
I don’t want to be cast as this part
And I’ve never been a very good actress anyways.


So, no
You don’t want my self confidence.
You don’t want to have rely on your mother
Who tucked your hair back when you cried
And father, who always said he was proud
So much that you got used to it
Until one night, you realized what he was saying.

You don't want to have your parents have to stand by, helpless
and watch you fall apart
From words like venom
That was injected straight into your heart
And coursed through your veins
Parents that couldn’t do anything
Because those girls were already too poisonous for the antidote.

You don’t want to sit alone in the corner
Texting other friends
Who have to reassure you that “they’ll get theirs”
And “they’ll get paid back by karma”
And to “be the bigger person”

Trying to tell me what I couldn’t accept
That I was beautiful, in more ways than I could understand
But I was drowning in peer pressure
And their voices were lost among the crashing waves.

Eventually, the storm passed.
I could haul myself back to shore
And hear what they were telling me.
But the storm passed while I was still surrounded by things like
“Ohmyfucking god Kayla, I have to tell you what happened this weekend with that boy"
"aaaah! You’re such a slut!”
I wish I was exaggerating.
But this was the kind of thing that poured down on me like rain.

And my umbrella that blocked it all out
became the idea
That my self worth is not based on other’s opinions
Damn.
That is pretty deep for a 16 year old girl.

But when I found that seed of an idea
It took root, it took hold
Until I had vines and leaves and flowers
Of self assurance
Radiating from my fingertips.

So now
When the media tries to feed me the mindset
That has been mass produced, reproduced, and introduced
In to the minds of girls
through the pictures of women that supposedly define “beauty”
Who look nothing like you.

I don’t pay attention.

Because
some girls can’t fit into a size zero
and some girls don't want to plaster on make up
so that they don’t even resemble or remember themselves
clogging their pores, the skin’s way to breathe
with the thought that
they’re not good enough.
They don’t live up to the ridiculous standards
That are honestly
So fucking stupid.

So, no, you don’t want my self confidence.
Yes, I believe I am beautiful and I have finally made peace with the body I see in the reflection of my bedroom mirror.
But
No, you don't want my self confidence.
You want your own self confidence.
And honestly, it’s not that hard.
If you could see yourself as I do
You would understand
That you
Just you
Nothing else added
You
Are breath-takingly beautiful.

And never, ever, let anyone tell you otherwise.

Pants.

I have a message for all the girls
Forgive me if I start to rant
But you really need to know
That leggings are not. Pants.

All I’m trying to say is
If I can see the details
Of your derriere
You might want to rethink
Your choice of what to wear.

I’m speaking from a perspective
Of not being a boy
And I’m well aware
That they enjoy
The way you walk by
Swinging your hips
To work what your momma gave you
But your momma didn’t teach you
How to dress
Just so you could walk out the door
All dolled up- but pantsless.

Unless you’re trying to attract attention
By showing what you’d look like
In some skimpy, shiny, slippery piece of spandex
Also known as panties from Victoria’s secret
Just so you know, I AM Victoria
And my secret
To encourage the infatuation
Is that I keep my assets covered
So to leave something up to the imagination

But if semi naked is the look you’re going for,
Why not just walk around in lingerie?
I’m sure the boys wouldn’t object to that
If you’ve got it, flaunt it
Or so they say.
Since when did all a girl have to show off
Become how low her shirt dips
Or how tight her jeans are?

Why do we, as women, walk around without pants?
Is it really that cutthroat in the female world that we’re now forced
To reduce the amount of clothes we put on?
If we’ve evolved to sexual attraction combat
My response is two words:
Fuck. That.

Who you are lies beneath the layers of cotton
And eyeliner
And mascara
And blush
And foundation
That you put on
In such a rush
To make sure that the face you present to the world
Is flaw free.
But it is in your flaws
That lies your beauty.

So, to the women, not the girls
I have a message
For you to own your identity
With pride
And take the glares and snide comments
All in stride
Because they will come
By the hundreds
To those who hold their heads high
And don’t feel the need
To be draped in lace
To feel sexy

So next time you hear the music
Where rappers bust out lines
About big booty bitches
And other testosterone induced chants
Remember that you are unforgettable
And in loving yourself
You can still turn heads and break necks
While wearing pants.

Momentary freedom

An explosion of sounds
vibrating your eardrums
shaking your chest
till your fingertips go numb

a deep heavy bass
rivaling a rave
thumps out of your center
locked inside a ribs' cage

in response, extremities tingle
singing a sweet soprano
never having experienced
the feeling they now know

it's electric and shivering
a back pressed to a sheet of steel
shaking your legs until
you have to kneel

pulsating, pressure filled perfection
uncontrollable and uncontainable
a simple, scintillating sensation
found to be self sustainable

in toes, feet
fingers and hands
when a mind is allowed
to fully expand.

It's a million colors
all swirling together
in on perfect moment;
a mind without its tether

Translation

I miss the feel of a pen
between my fingers
the translator of my mind
that makes me feel free
helps my thoughts unwind.

This keypand under my fingertips
is lifeless and cold
it gives no personality
to the story being told

I used to be able to flourish
to scribble and cross out
now the backspace bar
lets me erase my doubts

leaving no proof
of any mistakes made
as though my mind
was basking in the shade

of its own glory and skills
that cast a shadow
so vast and impressive
that nothing else can grow

yet my musings are just flowers
or maybe even weeds
readily basking in the sun
telling me their needs

to grow roots
to make a base
so the leaves can flourish
at their own pace

or to set seeds
and spread themselves thin
like a wildfire of greenery
blooms heard above the din

of silence so fragile
it is easily broken
by my words, written
and until now, unspoken