Passage by Adriana Parrino (16, Arizona)

I was in a bath,
And touched my right hand to my left shoulder
And traced my moles like they were my ancestors,
Trekking through Russia or maybe stomping grapes in Italy.

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I’m not sure which half that arm is from.
I traced them all the way up my neck and back down,
And I held my arm,
And it wasn’t smooth,
It was bumpy,
My hairs were on end,
And I saw the red marks I had made on my beautiful arm,
My fingernail marks,
Trying to get rid of my bumps,
Or pick them away.
I pitied them, really,
I pitied me, too,
For hating them.

These bodies,
They do so much for us,
With their wonderful curves and crevices and angles and bumps and blemishes.
How amazing it is,
That they just take form,
So loyal,
So there.
No partner will ever have the security your body does for you,
The patience
The nerve
The honesty
And no human will ever give it the respect such a rightful companion deserves. We don’t know how.

When I look in my mirror,
I check for red spots, black dots,
Any wrongs,
Irregularities.
I wait for cleanliness
And smoothness.
I want my skin,
I think,
To be one of those wonderful fashion silks,
You know,
Like the ones they sell at Joann’s Linens,
Under those fluorescent lights,
The ones that make dollar store silks look like trash,
The nice ones,
That everyone can’t help but love,
The ones that glow
And can’t help but glow,
The ones that make a living hell seem right...
I mean, normal...
I mean, bearable...
The ones that distract us.

But in all this silk talk,
I forget to see
That there are so many other materials…

I think I am not a silk.
I think I am a mountain.
I want taut, smooth,
Clear.
Lines.
So much.
I can’t bear to see my rugged and raw,
My trees and valleys and my trails,
How they skim down my leg and up my face.
Like a map,
A real one,
Not a corny cartoon one with one straight path

Who follows those?
I am a mountain,
A curlicue of paths.
And I am the lakes that run beside them, too.
I am the sun hovering over them,
And I am the moon waiting patiently under them, too.
My moles are my ancestors.
The veins running down my forearms are the strength of a thousand volcanoes,
Blue ones,
Spouting life,
Spouting blood,
Sprouting my imperfect but still improving Brussels Sprouts.
(I don’t sprout flowers, you know.)
Silk makes you sprout flowers,
And as we established,
I am not silk.
The trails around my hips are treasure maps,
And my face,
So vibrant,
White with these wonderful red spots, some white, some red, some black.
I mean,
I’m learning to learn that they’re wonderful,
I want to think they’re wonderful,
But I want them gone, nonetheless…

But I say I love abstract art,
I could look at it all day.
Every new place I go,
I always find the art museum,
And I go to the abstract exhibit,
To see the fine colors and odd strokes,
Haphazard and perfect,
Organized chaos is my favorite.
And I just let the imperfectness hit me
And then,
I’m so sad to leave.

But upon walking out,
I see the Renaissance exhibits,
And I get bored…
I don’t like technique.
It’s too perfect.
Too smooth.
There’s a reason I don’t write structured sonatas,
Only Shakespeares write silky sonatas. 
And there are already enough of those...

I am not a Shakespeare,
I am unfinished,
Aspiring to be a
Maya Angelou
Freedom fighter,
Rupi Kaur
Goddess walking,
Emily Dickinson
Wisdom poetess,
Virginia Woolf
Troubled revolutionary,
Poette.
yes, I am underrated poetess next door,
Rugged tigress poetess,
I even have the stripes on my thighs,
(Or maybe they’re claw marks.
Either way makes for an exciting story,)
And I like it.
Yes.
I think I like my rugged.

Reminds me of a mirror, I suppose.

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