A Siren's Cry

I'm not sure anyone understands what it feels like to look into the mirror and literally hate the persistently shallow grimace I refer to as my face. I hate my brassy hair that never lays correctly. I hate my scarlet blemishes that stain my forehead. I hate my thick, untamable eyebrows. I hate my shit colored eyes. I hate my random freckles. I hate my hooked shaped nose. I hate my chapped lips. I hate my uneven collar bone. I hate my plump arms. I hate my ever-growing waistline. I hate my dimpled thighs. I hate my round calfs. I hate my stubby toes. I hate that I have to shave every inch of my body just to stay presentable to the general public. I hate that number on the scale. 
I hate my unrelenting hatred for myself. 


Moreover, I'm not sure anyone understands what it's like to keep this dissatisfaction to myself. I constantly find myself desperate to explain this deep revulsion to anyone that is willing to listen. All the while I am terrified of being judged accordingly. The thought of being that girl horrifies me to no end. And so I mention my vices but quickly change my mind. And the subject. 


I'm not sure I know how to look into the mirror in an estimable fashion. There is nothing I want more than to love myself the way I've felt you love me. But it's an incessant battle that will never go away. It's tenacious; nearly stronger than my will. It catches me by surprise and is triggered by nothing more than a glance at my reflection. 


When I was ten I was granted permission to join a club. It was called Merely Mortal, and I was only permitted to become a member if I knew what the words meant. Merely meaning only, simply, or just so. Mortal meaning human; often compared to and falling short to a divine being. Merely Mortal: only, simply and just human. 


As debilitating as my opinion of myself can be, I'm only human. I suppose the beauty of my mortality is that I'm sanctioned to hate myself and the things that I do, but still learn from it. Essentially, it doesn't matter in what regard I hold myself. There's always someone or something out there that looks to me in a higher esteem. I guess that's what keeps a person going, right?


Yours until the pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

Genesis 1:27

I imagine God standing in a kitchen, looking silly in an apron. While He gracefully removed all the proper utensils from the cabinets, He hummed a song of love. He took each and every ingredient, measured it to perfection, and added it into the mixing bowl with great care. He spooned the batter into the pan gently and was careful not to spill. He placed it in the oven, and patiently waited for the timer to ding so He could remove His creation and gaze at it with eyes of wonder. 

“You are beautiful.” 

His piece is an acquired taste. One can hardly grow accustomed to it’s crass behavior. It strives for perfection, but always falls short. It wants to be brave and courageous. It seeks approval. It’s motives are unknown to not just it’s peers, but also to itself. It question’s the ingredients God used, and talks to Him with doubts and uncertainties about it’s character. 

God created me. But the magic about it all is that only He knows why He used pecans instead of walnuts. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Excuses

I haven't been here in a while. I mean, yes, I have been to this specific location quite regularly for a long time. I've sat in my black and white bean-bag chair, decorated with hundreds of circles, making me feel as though I'm sitting on eyeballs. I've stared at this blank page for hours, and I've tried composing something mildly interesting probably a dozen times this week alone. But I haven’t been here. My heart hasn’t been present in my mundane writings. I’ve been perusing it out of habit; writing out of haste. I’ve been acting the way a writer should not. 

But then perhaps, I have an incorrect notion of how a writer should act. Am I lesser of a writer because I feel everything different? Am I wrong for feeling numb or simply angry? Everything feels jumbled up in my head, and the words refuse to arrange themselves properly on paper. The way it should be is a perfect picture in my heart and mind. But the correlation between my invention and the world’s truth is somehow lost in translation. 

There are not enough words in the extensive english language for me to describe the vast amount of things that have occurred in the past few months. There's been death, injury, sickness, and hardship. But there's also been life, growth, revelation and a different kind of wealth. 


I work with three little miracles three times a week. I have the honor and privilege to watch these children grow into their own people. I received bad news yesterday while I was working. Once I got off the phone with my mother, cousin, and boss, I took in a deep breath and looked into the eyes of the lives that just began seventeen months ago. After a whine and a giggle or two, I picked up Katie and she blew me a kiss. I thought to myself, "Out of all the places I could be, I'm so glad I got the news while I was here." I kissed Katie's forehead and took her into the kitchen and moved on with my day. 


There have been certain things I've learned to handle with grace. That being one of them. That's something worth writing about. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie