Saturday, September 30
BEAUTY I suspected beauty in myself, I broke the bathroom sink trying to reach the mirror, longed for photos, there were none. I was an observer of my own knees, stroked my own thighs, my arms the same delicate slope as the shell split open to reveal the whorl, the tiny empty rooms shrinking into themselves. I was beautiful to dogs, they bit me, they wanted my flesh. One tore open my calf, a dog on a chain broke free to nip me. They can smell your fear. So stop fearing, the man said as his dog leapt on his leash. The man choked him back. The beauty in me could break a home by standing still or scare a man by spitting milk into his lap. My colicky cry could rupture love. I wandered through my mother’s house to find a picture of my face, mine could crack and split your mouth, break the frame, and it is so plain to see, in the womb I was an egg that should have spread its blood and thinned, ugliness thrust its way to me, a banal fist and slap and now my form must be erased, and beauty keeps attracting gropes, the Salvation Army clerk who thought I was a thief and lifted up my shirt where the bare ribs were and the skirt where she sought the necklace. I had not stolen. I froze for any caress, any glance. Rough like my origin. Yes, even if it pinched, accused. My beauty was criminal, it begged. It said, Break my skin to make it seen. (Jessica Cuello)