so I got to thinking
what if Death
isn't a grim dude in a black hood
but is instead
an annoyingly perfect and perfectionistic
aerobics instructor
who chirps at you
that it's time to do your cardi-oh-oh
and when you do those leg lifts
you've gotta squeeze those glutes
because if you don't squeeze 'em
no-one else will
and I kind of got to thinking
what if I don't want my life
to revolve around whether or not
some dudebro wants to
play grab-ass with me
and then that chipper death
chirped at me that I
need to mind my carbs and calories
because fat is the very worst thing
that a person can possibly be
and then I got to thinking
that maybe that's not true
that in fact the worst thing a person
can possibly be
is a sanctimonious twat
who refuses to respect
other people's lives and conditions and preferences
and bodily autonomy
and who really can just fuck off
and then I got to wondering
if maybe that's the way Death works
is by annoying people to death
by making them fight all day every day
with vicious inner voices
that tell them they're no good
because they have dimpled thighs
or chunky butts
or saggy boobs
or tummy rolls
or they just aren't perky-werky enough
and then I got to thinking
that maybe what happens
is people get tired
of hearing Death's annoying voice
bleating at them to get up and at 'em
because nobody who isn't perfect
deserves to have a life
and so they smash the snooze bar
on their internal clock
one too many times
in an attempt to shut the annoying bitch up
once and for all
~Cie~
Notes:
Today's November PAD Chapbook Challenge asked for a (blank) of (blank) poem. I initially went with "hands of time," which is how I found the image of the perky aerobics instructor looking lady with her watch. I started thinking about all the years and time and money I spent trying to hate myself thin, and it really pissed me off that the message people (especially women) are sent from the moment we draw breath isn't "take care of yourself because you are worthwhile regardless of your size or looks," it's "if you girls aren't thin and pretty in a very specific way, you are garbage and don't deserve happiness."
So, I changed the title of my poem to Tyranny of Perfection and wrote about what it feels like to fight with the hateful internal dialogue that has been crammed down my throat for as long as I can remember. It would be nice to be able to just BE, without having to fight with these horrible messages from the cradle to the grave. Doing so is the biggest fucking waste of time and a waste of a perfectly good life too.
