She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,
everything a means to an end,
comprised of acts against nature involving
hot wax
razors
foul smelling creams
food deprivation
scissors
tweezers
bar-bells
treadmills
abortions
a high priced psychoanalyst
eye liner
carrot juice
and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes
as football, tv, and Nascar
… to name a few.
Please him, please him, please him,
she has been taught since infancy.
Never did anyone suggest please yourself.
She spends a good deal of her time
looking in the mirror and weeping.
In the end, it always ends.
She wanders from place to place,
repeating the cycle,
through the good years,
the years of her youth,
the years she can never get back.
Bemoaning the ends.
Till one day, something snaps, something changes,
and now she chooses which acts of nature
she will violate and why,
and there is no him to please anymore;
they have stopped lining up at her door
or she has told them all to leave,
she doesn’t know which.
It is quieter now,
she is more focused,
and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,
though she still spends a good deal of her time
looking in the mirror and weeping.
Bemoaning the ends.
It is not that she has given up on love.
It is that she has a different understanding
of what the word means than she used to.
Then one day she meets someone she thinks
maybe she could love someday,
the right way,
the way love was intended.
She admires this man,
she respects the way he faces his demons,
and in his presence,
she feels lighthearted and joyous
in a way she has not for years.
He says he wants to be her friend,
and he cries when he confesses
he cannot give her more.
She looks in the mirror and weeps.
Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.
Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?
Not even from habit.
She weeps because his hesitations are her own,
his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,
His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.
She realizes he may find it easier
to walk away than to walk toward,
and she will end up, once more,
Bemoaning the ends.
A Collection of Perceptions 