Tripping Over

"Sweet, sweet
mercy."
The words roll
off her tongue
with the dew-
drops falling
from the tangerine
leaves.
Blades of Northern
Air slide their
dull ends
across her arms
and leave a shine,
the reflection
of coins and dirt.
Bitter copper
in her cheeks,
nickle rubbings
on her feet.
The sun rises
and she stuffs
her pockets
with fruit.

Quandary

Today I dressed in all
                                  pink
because I made the mistake
of leaning in close
             to the mirror.
I SAW my enlarged
extremities,
and the forced eruption
of my genetic impurities,
shouting
      of my ILL health
  and bad habits
          of hating myself.
So I muffled them
with sticky
                   lipstick
         and concealer,
but they just made
  their voices deeper
   and CONCAVE,
taking in my gags
and hanging them
       from my skin
because
                    that's mine.
And I put on a bow
to hide my forehead,
   wishing that I was Muslim
so that I could wear a hijab
       and have people
wonder if I was really
beautiful under there.
I would cover it all
if people wouldn't wonder,
       first,
    if I was a terrorist.
But I AM.
     And the terrors
of my self-restraint
make me preach
                           COURAGE
and tell people
     they can be happy
even when they want to cry.
The pink.
       To draw attention
away from my self-
                           centered
     jealous admiration.
But I felt like a child
and my young self
was ashamed
            to align to my side,
so I left the pink in
     a crumpled HEAP
  and borrowed black
to match the grease.

Here's the Weirdest Part:

On your way to happiness,
stop by.
Focus the sunlight
into a single point
in the starstruck,
fallen ashes
on the tar.
Singe a spot
that I can smile at
when I look down.