on enemy lines

I want you to hold your tongue on this idea of if I am pretty or not, because I believe that I am not far too often for me to entertain the idea that I am. Whatever you say will have no effect, telling me that I have at last arrived at the root of my problem: tremendous brainpower.

Jesus, I say in the coffeeshop bathroom, I wish you were sitting next to me on my little leather cubicle out by the front window. I wish I could just sleep in the sun and You would tell me things that are true. I'm deaf to truth and I don't have any semblance of remedy, other than to talk to You. And here we would sit, You and I, in the coffeeshop's sun, thinking little of anything but each other.

And I would tell You things, one after another, like this: my pants didn't fit this morning, too tight. I keep forgetting to floss and notice that my teeth are getting to be more yellow than the ivory I tolerate. I keep thinking that what I look like is a substitute for who I am. I feel messy and untethered. I've been ignoring You for what feels like ages.

But You do not tell me I am pretty, ask me to forget the question, know that I am fatigued from trying to wrap my pickup truck head around the stop sign pole fact that reads BEAUTY IS WORTH.

My greek teacher is talking about adjectives. He says, the good people, the bad people, the ugly people. And I suddenly I fit two or three pocket puzzle pieces together, worn from my constant questions. Ugly is not about appearance.

But aren't I embarrassed, asks a voice, that I don't live my life in neutrals and minimalism and film grain?

I do not give him an answer.

Aren't I embarrassed, he asks, that I keep writing the same things over and over again?

A little, I cave. But I continue anyway. I always do. I wonder if that entrenches me stuck or liberates me inspired.

And aren't I embarrassed, he asks again, that I keep getting in the way of the things I'm trying to accomplish?

I tear up. I am.

Together, him and I manufacture excuses as to why I am not good enough. We brainstorm comprehensively. We write effectively. We make blanket statements. We don't ask questions. I don't tell him to leave. I believe him. I don't know how not to. And then suddenly the ideas he's stitched into my dress pants and turtlenecks start to become mine, not good enough, not good enough, not good enough. And then they're in my ballet pink satin shirt and I grind to a halt, because ballet pink is not his color. It belongs to my prayer.

And I have no choice but to admit that I am not only embarrassed but undressed. And what of resilience? I have been an eggshell.

Am I tired? asks another voice, less soft but more true. Am I tired of asking questions I won't answer correctly? Believing in words and shapes that aren't real? Assuming I can withstand the king's horses and men as they stomp me into the cobblestone?

Yes, I admit , I melt. I am who You say I am.

And the tea I've ordered comes. it's a honey color, but the edges of the small glass pitcher live in a state of artificial tiger flame. I see imaginary hints of a sterile periwinkle, too, because even in my dreams I've never lived in clean lines. I spell the word neutral wrong every time. So I remember my own words, color is coping. I begin to adopt that color is coping but Jesus is healing.

With no resolution I write on, dress on, eat on, live on. Demanding freedom from the questions about my vocal range, the extra weight, the stains on my clothing, the pencil lines on my canvas. Demanding a cease of the friendly fire.

The infant in the coffeeshop cries to his dad in discomfort. Screams, pulls, tears. Why don't I?