fairley Lloyd

don’t look in the mirror

my hair
looks like seaweed 
it will not straighten or curl 
like shirley temple’s because it’s
a mess 

my face  
is swollen with 
zips of small and large sizes 
i look like a pepperoni 
pizza   

my lips  
are so fat it
takes up too much of my face
i’m afraid they’ll fall right off of
my face  

my neck 
is so freckled
and taller than a giraffe’s
it’s fully visible for all
to judge 

my legs  
are so hairy  
for someone who’s a woman 
it’s thicker than the overgrown 
bushes   

i have 
a mountain for 
a stomach that busts open the 
seams of every blouse I cannot 
fit in.  

i do not  
know  
what it feels like  
to not feel  
ugly 

The Problem with Poetry 

 The problem with poetry is precision. 
It’s hard putting the perfect words on page. 
Perhaps it’s pretty for some, but for people
like me, it’s a puzzle. I picture the poem’s  
appearance, but the process is more painful  
than I'd prefer. I've pried my brain, prayed to 
all the pantheons, but the problem pesters and  
produces poor results. But perplexing as it is,  
polishing a poem is pretty worthy of pursuit.  
I suppose placating my perfectionist pleasure  
is impossible in practicality, but perhaps the 
possibilities will pay off in the end. Someday, 
I’ll play with the perfect words, put the pen  
to penciling, present a perfectly punctual
poem, and come to a place of peace.