Pens and Pages

I found it strange how men swam in the pool without seeming to feel even a tad bit uneasy about their less than perfect bodies, hairy, dark, with proud paunches wearing a swimsuit that was nothing more than a boxer While I, Another Imperfect Woman, Shivered in my suit, Wondering if more than my contours were visible, Even though it was dark, Even though the swimsuit covered what's "necessary to cover". My first swimming lesson And instead of feeling proud for having dared, for having tried, A Million Thoughts crossed my fearful mind. The fat belly. The fat arms. Hairy armpits. Sunburns. Chlorine. Shape. Shame. Thighs too flabby. Hips too large. Hold your breath. Keep your head down. Pull the suit's edges Let it cover some more skin. I need to wax. I need to look thin. My first swimming lesson And before feeling the fear of water I felt shame. And if perfection is the need only for women. Oh, I tell you, it's a

( Because everyone around us pretends to be someone they are not and, maybe, so do we.  Maybe the person you truly are is only when you're all by yourself. ) I hope it's you The face you show me every morning, For I have torn masks before, I have detached pretty pink masks from dark red faces, I have burned those wooden masks so that they can Reflect the faces they hide. They don't. They veil a different anatomy altogether, A face that only a mother could truly love, A face that would push me to trauma for a few months, A face that brings along depression and loneliness. I have fancied those faces would one day turn white, Or a lighter shade of grey or blue. They don't. They bathe with blood every night I kiss them goodnight. They have bathed in the blood they stole from someone else alike. Every time I pull out such masks Stuck to their skin Knowing not the thin boundaries For they have, over the time, erased,