I found this bit of writing from last year.
I struggle with feeling
That all my parts
Were the ones leftover,
In the back of some heavenly stock room,
On the highest shelf,
Sandwiched between the plastic forks and some angelic decorations;
Angelic decorations used for some angelic theme party in some angelic anteroom
And then promptly forgotten.
I stare in the mirror
And try to recognise
What I wish wasn't mine
And yes,
I know,
The Almighty doesn't make junk
And who am I to say He was wrong?
But Dear Lord,
Is it ever hard to be a girl these days.
Dear Lord
Is it ever hard to be me these days.
That longing in me,
To be a beautiful creature,
That wish in me,
To be a graceful measure
Of womanhood in blossom,
Is squelched when I find myself
Tripping-falling-stumbling-crashing-slipping
Into everything literal and figurative.
And brushing my hair back,
Trying to recover,
I catch sight of myself,
In the random windows of eyes
And blush at the picture
Of such a silly,
oddly made
woman.