the burden of being lovely
“Inner beauty is the most important thing,” my mother said.
“It’s worth so much more than outer beauty.”
And so sealed my fate.
A combination of out-of-context advice from my mother
and heavy indoctrination at the church
created a beast who poured and poured and poured into others.
She couldn’t stop.
Her cup did not runneth over.
It cracked so deeply that those cracks became craters.
And those craters turned into sinkholes.
The chalice disintegrated into sand in her palm,
the granules drifting away in a hot breeze.
A carefully constructed mirage convinced her that she was magic.
The cup turned into a hat.
And from the hat, the magician pulled never-ending, colorful lies.
“If I can’t pour from my cup, I’ll simply create an illusion.” She told herself.
And so she did—
and down the rabbit hole she went.
Self-abandonment is a funny thing.
My existence wasn’t built around putting myself first.
I have been trained to make other people’s lives easier.
Better.
Less insufferable.
I am but a vessel for your misery.
Please—allow me to perambulate through your shadows.
Assessing the wreckage, asking myself,
“What can I do?
What can I give?
How can I help?
How do I use my existence to make yours more tolerable?”
If I allow greedy hands and hungry hearts to tear me apart,
I’m useful.
Wanted.
No, needed.
And loved.
And when the smoke clears,
it’s just me standing in front of the mirror.
I wipe my tears.
I recollect myself enough to start again.
I’m a charcuterie board for the pestilent.
I’m a discarded apple next to a trash can.
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