A Little Uncreative Prose

*Gasp*

It's true. For my friends out there who know me as the one who cannot and will not write linearly with a smile. . . Well, I'm not doing that either. I have a bit of writer's block, you see. Not from lack of ideas, but from too many ideas. Christmas holiday has left my mind hollow as a cream puff. Actually, there are still a few academic stressers bouncing around in there, but now my mind is full of imaginary stories and experiences. I want to write them all, but I only have the initial sparks of curiousity for each. Agrivating.

But it has me thinking. In the story of a person's life, who's to say the inner-world of contemplation and imagination aren't also valid, dare I say REAL, parts of one's story? If I were to write a biography, fictional or otherwise, would it have to be based on exterior events, or could it be an interplay between outer-world and inner-world? Or,perhaps, simply the character's inner-world/s?

For Your Health

When I say exercise,
you think of losing weight,
don’t you? Be honest.
Food is something that makes you fat.
Vitamins are supplements.
There’s a list—the good, the bad
—both will make you ugly.
Don’t touch.
Don’t taste.
Go run it off.

Run off even the smell.
Run off the desire,
the need.
Hunger. Can you trust it?
Once you start,
it’s too late,
so eat anything.
Eat everything.
You’ve failed.
Remember?

Food will only add
what you don’t want.
One bite and you are flawed.
Hide it if you can.
Health makes a lovely mask.

I Have Something Important to Say

There was a line of ants marching through the kitchen,
toward my last peach. I thought about snatching it up
and calling the exterminator,
but I couldn’t.

The drier buzzed during my afternoon nap.
Who set the alarm anyway?
Maybe it was the hot pink sweater
that left a neon calling card in the lint basket.

The photos in my album are starting
to fade—the edges separating
image from paper.
They are the only copies.

Daughter, Who is not Mine

They will try to divide you—body
cleanly from soul—and tell you
where your beauty lies.
No mosaic here,
no puzzle of pieces fit.
One loose shard, a fragment
of your being, will be
lovely and desirable.
They will prize and polish it
‘til it shines from wax and gloss.