Pretty Things

Grandma once asked me if I knew why boys liked race cars

She said it was because they like to go fast & hug the curves

& she was right. 

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

My body is no trivial track for boys to simply ride on & hold… 

I am a banquet table; a feast that is prepared but yet to be enjoyed

How sad to have mastered the art of cooking

With no one to savor the spread 

I am wild, I am free; I taste of sweat and sun…

Of the wild & the fierce…can’t you smell it? Won’t you come?

“Just one bite” is a dangerous game…you’ll soon be back for more. 

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

I am a soft canvas, stretched across rolling hills & gentle valleys 

The sun has kissed my hills, my dips, my peaks, & everything in between 

Yet this landscape still whispers sweet secrets that the sun has never seen 

Someone once asked me what I looked my best in

I replied, “my skin”. 

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

I am canvas, itching to be used; a blank slate, a fresh page, a sculpture of grace

The potter that shaped me was the best of the best; His hands forming each inch with precision & care 

I am not made for the finger paints & wax crayons that I have been offered

I await a true artist with skill & vision 

One who will fill my canvas with the most beautiful of colors & paints.

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

I am an instrument, stringed & curved

I am rich with potential, but boys are not skilled in this craft…

Their fingers are heavy, their scales & chords dull

So I sit, collecting the dust tightly about me 

A pity indeed, for the songs I could sing-  the melodies I could play - would enchant you…if only you had ears to hear & hands to play. 

But the music was cheap, the tune out of reach…my strings remain dormant and still. 

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

I am a garden, brought to full bloom

Wafting enticing scents, delicious fruit ripe for picking

Can’t you smell? Don’t you see? My fruits are ripe & swaying in the warm breeze 

Inviting strong hands to take hold, to command, for fresh lips to indulge 

I am fresh, green, glowing with color & health, 

Surrounded by bees -- too often stung, too seldom kissed

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

I am strength. I am power. I am sensual. Soft, pure spun gold

I am sky-blue eyes & strawberry-red lips; smooth & subtle

 I am bold confidence draped in satin & silk – this is what you see & this is what you think:

Devilish eyes, sway in step, toss of head, strength in stride

But this is not me. 

You confine & define me, put me in your cage; intrigued, you play with me & poke at me

You mow down my landscape, pull at my strings; you leave spots on my canvas, tear up my race track; you steal my pollen, pick at my food; offering no return for the damages as you pull me apart in your cruel curiosity.

You forget that I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

The thing that you missed is the cause of my curves. I have curves because I needed something to cover my edges; to soften the razor-sharp corners that lie beneath 

I am soft because I have been sanded down by trial and error

I am bold because once I was timid & frightened 

I have devilish eyes; forged in pain & sorrow

I have strength because once I was weak & I had to grow 

I am sensual because I was once frightened by love & beauty; ashamed of the gold, bronze, blues, reds, & curves

You look at my exterior & assume you know me well, but you forget the shaping influence of my edges.

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart

Why my hands? Why my heart? 

My hands are stone cold, strong with intention. 

My heart is a mace, iron walls all about. 

Be careful! Don’t get close!

I may wound you if you approach.

How sad that we hide ourselves when others judge our surfaces. 

They place you on a pedestal, ask you to sing & dance, but criticize you for falseness & hiding your heart in the dark. 

We are so cruel to pretty things.

We destroy them in our fascination.

I am all curves & no edges, except for my hands & my heart