Perfection

I was standing at the stoplight waiting for it to change so that I could safely walk across, but these things always take forever. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placed one in my mouth, and lit it with my favorite lighter. The lighter was so plain, but it was my favorite because it was the color blue. I inhaled as if this was the last thing I'd do on earth. I really hope it's not though. I hate smoking, but I don't remember why I started. Every time I smoke I laugh because I think it kinda funny how in front of some people I feel really cool inhaling and blowing out smoke rings, almost sexy like in the movies where everything is perfect. But around other people I feel ashamed. Like some how, I let them down. When I am around these people, I feel I'm breathing for them and myself. They don't want smog in their lungs. If they did, they would bum a cigarette from me. The streetlight changes, finally. I begin to walk across the street and flick my cigarette out. I haven't been to a slam in a long time. I always enjoy going though. Even if I am not performing. I was a judge once. A terrible one. I didn't judge based off of how good I thought the poem was, I judged based off of the fact that I was completely stunned by one of the woman performers. Her poem was about sexuality and the demands of the world to be attracted to a woman if you're a man, and a man if you're a woman. She described society as a poison within itself.

You cannot speak any longer. close your eyes and stare into a world we cannot accept as one whole. I fall, in and out, transparent. Shake me violently and turn me over, and you still have no control.



The lines lingered in my mind. It wasn't the best poem that night, but the most understood. As she left the stage, I could see her content executing off of her body. A bright energy that gave the whole room butterflies. I gave her the highest rating. She didn't win that night. I stayed and watched her dance. As I watched her, I could have sworn I saw blue and yellow lights trailing from her body. The poem I'll be presenting to the crowd tonight is a poem that rooted from the feelings sprung out towards her. As I walked through the doors I glanced to the side and saw my reflection. I hated it. As much as I hated smoking. If I could walk up to myself smoking I would be uncomfortable. I would not feel cool at all. I brush it off and continue to walk in. The crowd is large tonight. Larger crowds seem to ease my nerves. Smaller crowds make me feel like it's easier for the crowd to judge me up close.

I find a seat near the front where the contestants are to be seated and it begins. A young girl goes up to read her poem. She is the sacrificial goat. A shame to , because her poem was good material for the actual contest. As she finishes reading her poem , the host walks over to our seating area .

He tells us to draw a number. I picked a piece of paper and unfolded it to reveal the number. I stare at the number and decide if I like it or not. I decide that the number three is good, because the audience is fully attentive. I crave a cigarette as contestant number one walks onto the stage. Badly. I begin to smell the smoke of my marbrol from earlier when I was a the stoplight. My senses are brought back to when the smoke crowded my face. I lifted my hands casually to my face, not on my nose but close enough to for my senses to retrieve the smell off of my hands. I looked around the room to see if people were watching me, perhaps tuning into my thoughts: my cravings: my wanting. I put my hand in my pocket and felt for a piece of paper. I had an itch to write. Anything, it didn't matter what. I just needed to place pen to paper and write down words that rhymed or didn't. Instead, I found pocket lint. I placed it on the table and observed it. The coloring would have been blue, but it had been faded into a gray. Worn out looking. I didn't want to leave it on the table, so I shoved it back into in my pocket. I wanted to write about the lint, and would do so when the slam was over.

Contestant number two is halfway through her poem about puzzles of society. And how we are all connected. The topic is obvious. She walks off the stage and the crowd claps. Noises become distant to my sense of hearing . I stand up slowly, wondering why I am nervous. I haven't been nervous for nearly three years. I stand with this terrifying thought of death and start to think about my story. I don't know what my story is yet, but I realize now, that when I die, I want people to know my a story. A story about me. Whether it's important to them or not doesn't really matter. The story is important to me, and I think that this is what counts. My story is kind of like the last name of a man. All it is going to take is one person to carry the story and pass it down to one other person. As long as the cycle continues, I wont be forgotten-or at least my story wont. I gulp down my water to shake the thought and walk onto the stage. On the stage, looking outward onto the crowd, the smells change into personal smells like stale cigarettes, sex and strong perfumes. I never understood why people think that the more perfume they wear, the better they'll smell. I didn't care. I was worried more about how I looked. I want to look perfect, like in the movies. I wanted my hair perfectly groomed, I wanted to be perfectly dressed, and I wanted a perfect smile. I attempted a smile at the crowd and stuck my hand in my pocket to feel for my lighter; something to grab on to. I stood up straight as I could and looked at the time. Three minutes past six. It was my time.



Perfection

Strangers tangle my thoughts and make me think
Why is he wearing that? I can't believe they're together again.
I never want to be in a custody battle, because I know that I probably couldn't handle someone saying,
why or how I am an unfit mother.
I pick up a magazine, and I don't need to make judgments. That task has been done.
You can see it clearly in flipped pages where celebrities have pieces of their body parts circled
with statements like " What the hell was she thinking ?!" or "Extra weight precaution."
I weigh more than average, my body is unique, I barely have hips, and my feet are bigger than
my tiny hands- with nails that never grow long and luxurious with beautiful bright colors. I never paint my face, or stretch my eyelashes.

I never want to be a celebrity. I am afraid of what society would judge me for.
Around strangers, I feel unsafe. I feel the plastic wavering eyes of individuals upon me,
sizing me up in their minds. And I have never felt safe around a stranger because
they are the color red. Dangerous.
Like the sexuality of our being, of our knowledge, and of everything we deny ourselves.
Dangerous like falling in love.

What is a description for love? I don't know, but I have felt the fall.
Inside a stranger is where I landed. Completely vulnerable, yet for the first time ever, I am not afraid.
I see beautiful blue flowers, all around me, growing on green stems, and glowing in yellow tints.
I sit alone waiting for her, that stranger whom I fell into. The one who, without ever meeting, made me feel completely content with who I was and who I am.
I have not seen her but once. She clouds my mind like a fog just before spring. And when she is there, I feel eccentric.
My heart pulses with a concrete rhythm of a love song.
I want to walk up to this stranger and say-
It's the idea of you that sends sensation through me like waves through the ocean.
I want you to hold me
And save your name for when the night is blue and fog has left the air.
Kiss me in spring, when kisses are like rain.



The audience claps. I thank them and walk off of the stage. To the bathroom. I splash water on my face and look up. There are two spots for mirrors. One mirror is cracked, and the other is completely gone. I smile at my cracked reflection and leave the bathroom to step outside for a smoke. I pull out a cigarette and place it to my lips.

The wind brushes my hair out of place and I light my cigarette. I inhale and feel a presence behind me. Exhale, I turn around, and it is she, my beautiful stranger smiling at me. She is mine and I can see it in her eyes as she parts her lips to speak.
"Strangers do stir up some odd feelings, don't they?"
"It's dangerous."
She laughs. "You mentioned that." She says.

She heard my poem, must have followed me out here. My breathe quickened, and my palms fill with sweet sweat that comes from comforting nervousness. The kind when you know something that you'll enjoy a lot is about to happen. You can sense it.

With her presence here, outside with me, I can feel my heart swell with a treasure chest of beautiful words. I flicked my cigarette and tossed away the remaining three left in the pack. She smiles bigger. I wanted to reach for pen and paper and write. She steps closer. She makes me want to write poetry. I want to tell her how, in a mere second of eye connection, she inspires me. It's a mystery of who we could be together. She grabs my hands. Exhilarating, it is, the two of us strangers standing here completely comfortable sharing space as if we had known each other from some acquaintance.

Like two wolves running through a wet forest just after a rain shower. She stares deep inside my eyes . I feel her energy dip into me like a thunderstorm waving in the summer time. The first night that I saw her, I wrote in one breath. Sketched a dream on an empty page of my journal. Tonight she has approached me. The smoke from my cigarette has cleared. The sky was a cross between blue and midnight.; The moon was full. Bright yellow, with a red trim. Two strangers kiss. Two women. Things like this don't happen- and yet tonight it has. There isn't another stranger around to judge this connection. A thousand Christmas trees couldn't have brought more beauty or more light.