Some poems ignite from writing group prompts, just like this one. All I had to do was go back in time and give my younger self advice that could change her life. What came out of my pen was regret for how much of myself I wasted on other people and, in the process, how much I starved my own happiness.
I hope my poem for young Joey sparks the hearts of women who light themselves on fire to keep the men around them warm. Crisscross, double-knot, my goddesses.
* * * * *
* * * * *
You are way more
than the waistline-slash-cup size score
some of these Joes
will try to tag to your toes
and pose you to fill.
Each of those dudes—
ego slaves in the board room,
bar room, and bedroom—
will spill his self-loathing
all over your pretty dress
if he so much as supposes
you might be smarter
or deeper
or happier
than he can impress
anyone to guess he might be.
If you have
more than he has
in anything,
he most definitely will
take your acts-of-service bricks
and mortar of affirmations
as long as you give, give, give,
as big as you will build him;
while he covertly digs,
makes little cracks in your surface,
rips your seams and chips your senses,
erodes you speck-by-speck,
until you are bent and left
alone,
which is exactly when he homes in
because he’ll know he’s winning,
and he’ll start ripping boulders
from your cliff;
then, you’ll see it:
your heart and liver shrivel
exposed to the cold,
and then he’ll pack those holes
with chunks of him
until the whole dream board,
all the orgasms,
are a big marker scribble
of his last name and his gigs,
things lined up how he wants them,
and on his schedule,
his whims and how tired he is,
and how you don’t appreciate
anything he did
for you.
Girl, your purpose
is not a dude.
Lace up those shoes,
crisscross double-knot.
No tags for you.
Tie Your Shoelaces appears in “Happy Place” on sale in print, digital, and audiobook formats at your favorite retailers. Read for free in the Libby app.
