I’m confused because I’m
Not sure if I’m supposed to have
Long hair that drags down to my backside,
Or short hair that frames my face,
Or if my forehead is too small,
But then again it’s not so big,
You can’t hang a poster on it that says
I know my nose is big, but should
It be small and cinched like a cocaine-
Snorting nostril, or should it resemble
My Piggy Bank from when I was three?
I don’t really have an upper lip,
But it relaxes on my fuller bottom one,
But do I tell the doctor to make them bigger
Like balloons, or perfect like a Kardashian’s?
I’m confused about this balance because
I have curves, but I’m not sure if
I should be up and down like a Hadid,
Or volumptious like a Beyonce.
This is too much because they say not
To build too much muscle or I’ll look like
My owner, but then again it’s really difficult
To be a ballerina,
I’m just so distraught because no one
Ever told me which one was right,
Why can’t they all just make up their mind?
Am I talking too much?
Corinthians was wrong,
3500 hundred years ago, maybe it was different,
Or maybe they just didn't write it down well,
All those different hands.
In that moment when you're
Holding someone's hand,
Knowing it won't be that hand
That you watch wrinkle,
But you hold onto it,
Hoping that one day it
Would be a different hand,
With a ring and a heart
That has your best interests,
Not your just interests for the night.
And your heart knows,
Oh your heart knows so well
That this isn't real,
But it'll race,
Because it's still naive.
Fake love, in all its hormones,
All its cruelty,
It's a good actor,
Tells a great lie to the heart,
Kind of like those raindrops,
You prayed would beat the others,
Running down the window,
Fleeting as the sun dries its life,
You rooted for rain till it matched
The tears rolling down your cheeks,
Those nights you felt you weren't good enough,
Those nights when Real Love was jealous,
Of fake love,
When Corinthians was wrong.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.