poetry

It’s Okay To Like Yourself

By Amy Thomson
Distorted reflection
plants seeds of infection.
Wine-stained eyes
see through lies.
Stolen glances,
Red Maple branches
frame two hazel ponds,
forming bonds
with myself.
Learn to love
the freckly galaxy
that dances on my nose.
Suppose
I don’t hate,
even appreciate,
my mismatched tits,
full of wits.
One Hawaii,
the other, Lanai.
Promised eruption,
media corruption.
I resist,
I persist,
I consist
of 126 beautiful fucking pounds.
Sounds like vanity,
it’s really just sanity.
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poetry

Itchy Sweater

By Amy Thomson

Rub,

scratch.

Poor material:

chemical,

arterial.

Take it off,

this itchy sweater.

Trend setter.

Out of my skin,

onto the floor,

rotten core

exposed.

Suppose,

I buy a net set of skin,

one akin

to models

and stars?

Behind bars,

one’s self,

one’s shield,

peeled,

revealed:

Amy.

 

poetry

Three Pound Brain

By Amy Thomson 

Three pounds,
the weight of the human brain.
Those last damn pounds
I can never

shed.

Ship my three pound brain
in a time machine to Darwin in Tahiti
“The Origins of the Bulimics.”
Scientists claim

your

brain is a stiff, three pound cocktail,
chemicals swimming about
in grey goo,
creating a conscious byproduct.

Ideas

vary between brains,
for hippies, yogis,
pastors and rabbis believe you have
a three pound soul.

Of

all the arguments,
the mind-body complex
divides humans in mass
and individuals in half.

What

caused this battle
between my body and mind?
Healthy diets of television
pouring bodies of

beauty

into my three pound brain.
My eyes windows of judgement,
my body a betrayal.
Hopeless vanity.

Is

the reason women are compared to fruit
due to our bright beauty?
I longed to be a luscious peach
to hold men’s gazes

and

make mouths water.
I am no peach, though,
Merely
a dirty vegetable.

Love

my fertilizer,
my roots run deep.
Not meant for display on the countertop,
but to nourish, maintain, and sustain. Trust

yourself,

for the various cultural standards,
the heads armed with critical eyes,
and the mouths that shout from cars,
now mean nothing in my three pound brain.