Petite (flat footed feet and chunky thighs)three years ago i weighed 58Petite (flat footed feet and chunky thighs)1 year ago in Free Verse
i wanted 44 but already
my cheeks sank inwards
and my face peaked--
i ate only to pretend to eat,
and thought it was all
today, the scales tell me 73
and although the trunks of trees
seem slimmer than my limbs,
i am learning a new definition
for pretty; a world where 65,
alive, and thriving, are synonymous.
my father's voice, a singe
against the eating disorder
still echoes, but it is fading
only petite girls are pretty
well, i am five foot -- three
inches bonus on a good day
and if that's not petite enough
i'll just redefine
La Petite SireneListen to me and my story. Listen to these words, for they are the first I have spoken for years, and the last I will speak for all of time. My story is one of sea and song given up for stone walls and the beating heart of Man. Listen and learn, for mine is not a tale of joy, but of loss.La Petite Sirene7 years ago in Fantasy
I was born in a world you cannot imagine. A place of no ceilings, of flowing and ebbing and songs that flew like wind through the tides. I should have been happy, but I was young and I knew no contentment.
I saw him for the first time when I turned fifteen. His soft body mirrored mine in its youth, but there was a strength to him, a solidity that I had never known. He was a Prince in his world, and though I did not fully understand what that word entailed, I was drawn to its power. I watched him for years, finally knowing what I wanted, but never knowing how to achieve it.
Then I met the Witch.
Through the dark and the silt She flew, Her arms like fans and Her eyes like silverfish- all flashing light
Petite Rose au JardinPetite Rose au Jardin4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms
Petite rose au jardin.
Petite rose au jardin, ton temps déjà compté,
Ta tête sur ton cou, quand ta tige chancelle,
En cet ultime chant du bruissement de tes ailes :
Métronome arrêté de ton temps écourté.
Oh Rose juste née! Quel feu déjà te brûle,
Petit bourgeon éclos au jardin des partout?
Tes beaux et longs cheveux, et puis, plus rien du tout ,
Com' dans la nuit soudain, un klaxon qui te hurle!
La chimie t'étourdit, et vacille ton ciel
Où n'a plus ses couleurs, tout là-haut, l'arc-en-ciel ;
Au jardin, au jardin, tant de beautés se meurent!
Quand il pleut le malheur, les petit' roses pleurent
Dans ce sombre pays de froide Leucémie,
Là, où la vie, hélas, n'est plus du tout amie!