Seriously guys. If you copy this shit, I will sic my fucking kitty on you. No joke.
Not for Sale
by Mollie March-Steinman
I am not a pubescent boy.
Not a part-time heartbreaker,
part-time pants-sagger
who acts like the swagger he doesn’t
have can make up for the mornings
I’ve woken up with a wet pillow. It can’t.
I’m not a Mean Girl.
I don’t line my eyes with lies
so thick they’re blinding.
I’m not a flat-ironed
prosthetic-tanned
midriff-bearing
excuse for a student.
Why even use that title?
The only thing you’re learning is how to ruin your body.
My mama didn’t teach me to wax my eyebrows
in 2nd grade. My mama didn’t teach me
how to inhale.
I don’t smoke.
I don’t tuck my cigarette behind my ear
and smile like I’m gonna live forever.
I don’t sell my body.
I don’t mark myself down
to your lowered expectations.
I’m not a piece of real estate you can purchase
with white teeth and a wad of manipulation.
Sorry, but I’m not for sale.
I’m not “buy one, get one free!”,
I’m not stale candy after Christmas,
and I am absolutely not Dollar Store
material. I am…a hardcover book.
I am a tall Starbucks frappuccino;
sure, it cost you, but didn’t it give
you that early morning kick?
I don’t think you understand.
I am dark chocolate I am Hope Diamond I am Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner
at Tiffany’s I am worth every penny so don’t look at me like I’m already yours cause
I know you can’t afford this.
I am priceless.
I am valued. I
am not
an object.
I’m not a waste paper basket, so please
don’t muffle my voice with your balled-up papers
and pencil shavings.
I’m not a velvet Elvis, a wax museum, a shallow cut, a five dolla’ knock-off,
a platinum curl, a trend, a street vender, a blue rose, or Botox.
I am authentic. I am flesh and blood.
Despite my hard exterior, I bruise
as easily as a peach; or my grandmother’s
skin. Handle me carefully.
I’m not a fool.
I am science and reason and logic—
but I believe in love. I believe in possibilities.
Sure, I’m a little misleading.
My voice is soft and dreamy and ditzy
but I think with conviction.
I am sensitive. The only reason you never see me cry
is because I won’t let you.
I am proud, but I let the floodgates
open when I saw my Grandpa
leaning over to kiss his Julie’s hand from his wheelchair.
I may be sentimental, but I’m not the type
to get a slanted haircut to fit into any category,
or inscribe “inner pain” on my arms.
I don’t listen to screamo or respond to peer pressure.
I don’t have tattoo sleeves and ears that are more metal than flesh.
I’m not fat, I’m curvy. I am soft
and rich and delicious. I’m a five-course meal.
I make your stomach growl
with anticipation. I make your tongue smile.
I make your taste buds do the twist
on the roof of your mouth.
I’m not light and airy and calorie-free.
I’m not a plastic bag. I don’t blow away in the wind.
I don’t blend into the crowd.
I don’t wear a sign on my head that says
“I’m not really trying.” I’m not a walking advertisement.
I’m not boring.
I’m not Fifties styled bob,
I’m not sandwich with the crusts cut off,
I’m not textbook, pop music,
leftovers for dinner. I am excitement.
I am whipped cream from the can
and shopping carts in the rain.
I am knowing it could tip
over any second.
I’m immeasurably flawed. I lose everything,
even myself sometimes. I’ll look for my glasses
when I’m wearing them. I talk too much.
Sometimes I’ll walk with my Dad and he won’t say a word.
He just listens. I don’t take care of my stuff. I’m disorganized.
I don’t take life seriously. I’m a hopeless romantic. I lie about doing my homework.
I’m human. I’m preoccupied. I’m judgmental. I’m a hypocrite.
My favorite words are probably inappropriate. I swear
for no good reason. I stare at the guys I like
despite how creepy it is. I’m a weirdo.
A pervert. I don’t really mind.
So what if bumper sticker phrases litter my arms?
Those are my words. My arms.
My way of expressing myself.
Deal with it. Don’t treat me like I’m toxic.
I’m not something to be ashamed of. I’m not
someone to walk paces ahead of in a public place.
I’m not Re-used,
Renewed,
or Recycled.
Lock me up somewhere safe;
keep me in good condition. Don’t lose me.
I am free speech. I am four-leaf clover.
Remember how much I’m worth.
Slow Cooked Meat
by Mollie March-Steinman
I want to kiss you like slow cooked meat;
kiss you strong, kiss you spiced
kiss you tender.
I want to mark you.
To leave lipstick,
sweet as honeysuckle,
somewhere in the vacant expression of your heart.
I want to kiss you like slow cooked meat.
To mold to your lips.
To melt on your tongue. To flutter in your stomach
like butterflies darting free of the net.
I want you to kiss me like it’s your last breath
and you want it to mean something.
I want you to kiss me with all the passion
of a redfaced baby crying.
With all the furious beat of a lovemade bed.
With all the childish delight of laughter.
The kind that makes your stomach hurt.
I want to kiss you like slow cooked meat.
To relish you. To take you in.
To dine on each flaw like
I’m falling in love.
How I Love My Coat of Many Colors
by Mollie March-Steinman
The grass is always greener, right?
Or browner. Or whiter. Or yellow-er.
Have you ever really seen a rainbow?
Warm light crystallizing in the air,
swapping shades and hues and tints,
mixing like wet clay? If you have
seen a rainbow, then you’ve obviously
never hurled racist daggers
at another human being. You
should know better then that,
right? You should know that
all colors deserve more than
your silent distain—if
you’ve seen a rainbow.
Maybe you’re just squinting
whenever light hits skin.
Maybe your eyes are still
adjusting to the brilliance.
Or maybe…you just don’t
see colors like I do. You’re
missing all the Poppy-Red.
Sunset-Orange. Primrose.
Jade. Periwinkle.
You blink away the Violet Mountain-Tops.
Creamy Chocolate. Dandelion Puffs.
Why would someone want to live
in a world where all they ever see
is the inside of their eyelids?
You’ve lost the sleek black of a panther,
the hot white of sand. You’re either
tiptoeing around the topic of race
or trying to turn everyone gray.
Well I don’t want
to be monochromatic.
Christina was completely
right. We are beautiful
in every single way.
Words can’t bring us down.
I am mist, spider-web, dew,
and moonlight, but you,
you are raven, soil, tree-bark,
mocha. Together, we are
fabulous. Together we are zebra.
We are mockingbird, we are magpie.
We should flow together like feathers,
like lips, like speech.
Please. Let’s yin and yang.
Let’s join hands and make magic.
Let’s harmonize. We don’t want to be color-blind—
we want to be kaleidoscope. We want our irises so
big they swallow the pores, the people, the prejudice—
and SPIT them back out in swollen bubbles.
The skin is the biggest organ in the human body.
Let’s wear it with pride.
From a Proud Atheist to an Obstinate Creationist
by Mollie March-Steinman
Dear Religious Fanatic,
You
with your bible hands
upturned
and your fingers crooked
as if beckoning
me into insanity.
You’re delusional.
You fail
to see the facts
that are punching you in the face.
WHY CAN’T YOU
USE
YOUR
HEAD?
Talk about
being in denial.
Instead
of proselytizing,
instead trying to convert me
with stained glass church windows
and empty promises of afterlife,
why can’t you open your mind?
S-C-I-E-N-C-E.
E-V-O-L-U-T-I-O-N.
Cause really
when did hearing voices
become a cult trend
and who said God
was a man anyway?
Who said
that abortion was murder,
or that life
begins at conception?
What are your sources, sir?
Are you a doctor? No.
Do you push watermelons
out of your womb
on a regular basis? No.
Do you support sexual
education in schools?
Are you going to support
this baby when it’s born
into a broken home?
No fucking way.
See, that would be the
ethical thing to do,
and down South
we don’t support any
radical idea that isn’t being
lynched on a tree.
–and don’t you think, my dear, sweet
Americans, my consumers, my Capitalists,
my fast-food eaters and Bush-supporters,
don’t you think there might be a correlation
between religious and political belief?
Well I refuse to idolize a white-robed
cloud-lounger who sits on his ass
and watches children starving, girls
being raped, dropping in occasionally
to whisper in the FOX news anchor’s ear.
I refuse to put my life in the hands of some
phantom in the sky, because I know
my time is limited and I don’t want to waste it
on fairy-tales. I don’t want to spend my life
waiting for Santa. Aw, sweetie. No wonder
you’re confused. You’ve been lied to for as long
as you can remember. Have you ever
thought for yourself? Join us,
us thinkers, us rebels of religion.
Stop hiding. Stop hiding. Stop
wasting time in the dry
pages of prehistory
because when your body melts
into Earth and people
start to forget the color
of your eyes, you won’t be
able to beg for redemption.
You won’t be able
to change your mind.
Let me know
what you decide.
Your friend,
The Atheist
I’d like to dedicate this one to my Grandpa Harold, who was an amazing man, and whom I loved very much.
Checkmate
by Mollie March-Steinman
My Grandpa wore a pen
in his shirt-pocket at all times.
He clipped it to his glasses case
and seldom pulled it out, but it hinted
at his immaculate personality.
Today, he is dressed in a soft blue
cotton button-down with short sleeves,
his proud Jewish nose jutting
out from his face, directing
his focus. Chess is his specialty, but he is patiently
letting five-year-old Woody win.
Woody, whose face
is not yet hardened from years of bullying
and unexpressed emotions.
Woody, back when he
still gave hugs
and said “I love you.”
He’s about to make his next move, hand hesitating
over the pure white bishop.
He’s already claimed one of Harold’s knights,
a fine sacrifice
for two of his pawns.
Grandpa’s silver wristwatch glints in the light
from the open window, its face white and mysterious.
The carpet is dark teal, sun-dappled
where it’s not concealed in the shadow
of the two chess players.
Max sits behind Woody,
half-hidden, beaming at the camera.
His shirt is little-boy-blue, his hair a brown canopy
on his flushed face. Maxi’s eyes are just like mine;
deep-set, framed by dark circles.
It’s like they’re predicting what’s to come;
sleepless nights and bruised eyelids
from too many fights at the playground.
But Max doesn’t know that he’ll become a control freak;
Woody doesn’t know that he’ll be stuck and depressed,
living at home. They are oblivious to the fact that they have a little sister
germinating somewhere in their Mommy’s belly.
In this picture, Grandpa Harold’s face is drawn
and his eyes are sunken.
He looks like a corpse, or a ticking
bomb; completely unaware
the explosion
curdling in his cancer cells.
He doesn’t know he’ll never see
his granddaughter get married. He doesn’t know
how beautiful the veins in his hands are, crisscrossing
under his skin, or how soft his hair is, white and silkworm spun.
He doesn’t know how much we forgot to tell him,
how many secrets we forgot to share,
how many poems we forgot to write.
My Grandpa, my quiet, strong,
beautiful Grandpa,
the amazing chess-player,
contemplates his chances;
and I think some part of him realizes, as he gazes
at that round wooden board,
jaw set, eyes sharp,
that he’s not going to win this one.
Oysters
by Mollie March-Steinman
You are an oyster. Water caresses
your armor, nudging
you into the deep.
You would blink…
but you lack the eyes.
All you can do is feel
the soft ripples on your underbelly,
and the life pressing in at all sides.
You are a pearl. You’re the jewel
of the sea, a fresh pink onion
plucked from the earth.
You are a puckered tulip,
a red raw baby,
rosy cheeks.
You are the egg breaking
on the horizon at dawn,
and the coin rising bright
on the skyline. You are limitless,
you are beautiful….
You are the ocean.
You are the momma bear,
protecting her cubs,
but sometimes snapping
when they chew on their paws
cause that’s just how parenting works.
You are flawed, and you are fascinating.
You can’t be described in a single poem.
You are the fluid trickle of my faucet;
you are the three rivers running
to meet each other halfway.
Whatever you are, don’t stay that way.
Move, dance, change! Never stop changing.
Hold the creatures in your belly
like they’re worth something.
And never forget that the world
is your oyster.
Wingless
by Mollie March-Steinman
The angel sleeps on a cotton boll
filled with enough ignorance
that the seeds
don’t poke through.
She decides what to dream
about beforehand.
You think she’s pretty
antiseptic, but truth
is her mouth’s just numb
from the Novocain.
Why is she faceless?
I want to Sharpie little eyes
onto her hollow head.
Make it permanent.
Maybe her mind’s so empty
there’s nothing for eyes
to reflect.
Maybe she got mauled
by a bear. Maybe God
doesn’t like her much.
Maybe he only gives faces
to people who believe in him.
You think she would.
She’s an angel, after all.
She hides secrets
in her apricot wings.
Her golden tiara
is made of defiance.
She ties a bow
around her neck
and claims it’s for breast
cancer awareness,
but really
she just likes pink.
She grades life
on a curve,
never really taking it
seriously, only
in it for the flying lessons.
A price tag
clings to her halo
by a few elastic threads.
She never imagined
it could break. She never
knew she would fall.
City of Misfits
by Mollie March-Steinman
I wish I lived in Manhattan,
where everyone
twists their
vowels and wears
mismatched socks.
Where the air smells rancid
and delicious,
like cigarettes
and processed
meat.
I would
be the lady
selling
yellow roses
on Wall Street,
smiling
at everyone,
even the
pushers
and
gummy-eyed
protesters.
Or I
would be the
toothless
man who sleeps
on trash
bags and gives
a grin to
anyone who
drops
change
in his cap.
People
are like
stories.
If I lived
in New York,
I would
notice
every mole,
every scar, every
stray
eyelash. I would turn
a bushy
braid and
a loose
dress into an
Indian
princess and I would
make mottled
skin and third-degree
burns
battle-scars.
If I lived in New York,
I would wish everyone
a good morning,
even drug dealers
in stolen
cars,
even brisk men
swingin’ briefcases.
I would haggle
with shopkeepers
and buy three,
no, four,
Mr. Softee’s cones
a day,
with sprinkles,
no matter
how suspicious
their skyscraper
heights
make me.
I would
feel sorry
for the vendor
and buy a purse
that’ll break in the taxi,
but at least I’d get a good
conversation
out of it.
New
York isn’t the city
of dreams, or lights,
or sleepless
nights. It’s no
romance
novel.
It’s too smoky
for that, too honest.
It’s more like…
the city
of flyaway
balloons
and lopsided
glasses
and mismatched
socks,
of runaway
cats and hot
dogs and patchwork
jeans that never
seem to stay
clean.
Thoughts that Bubble over Occasionally into my Stream of Consciousness
by Mollie March-Steinman
I’m sorry for lying about my homework.
Most of the time I just didn’t feel like doing it.
I’m sorry for making your present at the last minute I’m sorry for stalking
you I’m sorry for loving you I’m sorry for not loving you I’m sorry for leaving my book like that. I know it damages the binding. I’m sorry for being halfhearted
when you ask for a hug but it’s a side hug and I don’t really like you and
it’s just so. awkward. I’m sorry for not believing in God. I just can’t.
Lies like that make me want to throw up.
I’m not sorry that you ordered two pizzas when we couldn’t even finish one. I’m not sorry for the way I love you to death, and I don’t really care that we won’t be
“BEST FRIENDS FOREVER” because forever is an awfully long time
and you know how I get with commitments and why worry
about that now when we could be laughing
about something else?
I love the way your eyes shine chameleon,
the way my cat smells when she comes in from the rain,
the way my arms are always littered with bumper sticker phrases,
the way I felt at the end of Harry Potter. Like the emoticon that’s smiling
and crying at the same time. :’D I love wasting hours online. I love heartbeats,
even though they scare me sometimes. I love raging hormones.
I love how my Mom smells like honey and Calendula cream.
I love how my Dad wakes up just to say bye to me.
I love how my brother never says bye to me. I
love declaring my opinions without knowing
where I’m going with them. I love poetry.
I love curly hair. I love helping people.
I love pretty eyes. I love heart-shaped
leaves. I love autumn. I love whipped
cream and licking the batter.
I love you and I hate you, but mostly
I love you. I’m like an autistic child–a whirlwind
of emotions, sensory overload and a body I can’t always control.
Lately, I’ve been feeling so sad,
because it’s cold outside and I know
that some kids are sleeping under bridges
and I don’t understand how they still have toes
because I’m sitting on the floor in front of the heater
and I’m complaining about being cold, so why aren’t they?
I’ve been thinking about taking all my money to Giant
Eagle and buying a shitload of food—hunks of cheese
and loaves of fresh, steamy bread and apples,
bushels of them, and chocolate, because who
doesn’t love chocolate? And just walking
around Pittsburgh handing out food
to those kids under the bridges
who are too proud to ask for
help and then running
away before they can
give it back. That
would be nice.
Maybe it would
even get rid of this
guilt that whittles away at
me whenever I eat, because how
can I possibly eat when children with
swollen stomachs and emaciated faces have
nothing to eat at all? How can I laugh when people
are discovering AID’s sores on their faces or lumps in
their breasts and realizing their days are very likely numbered?
How can I complain about this cold when innocent people are being
water-boarded in Torture Facilities like Guantanamo? When wives have
to explain black eyes to their friends? I can’t. I can’t fucking complain when
I am one of the luckiest souls on the planet. I can get off my lazy ass and try to
do everything in my power to help those kids under bridges, those wives with black
eyes. Like a famous child-rapist once said, “I’m starting with the man in the mirror; I’m
asking him to change his ways. And no message could have been any clearer–if you want
to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.” I’ll take that advice.
Mayhem is Everywhere
by Mollie March-Steinman
I’m the blind spot
on your car,
the wind
shaking the tiles
of your uninsured roof,
the messy, bratty,
distracting baby
in the backseat,
face smeared with mucus,
shaking his rattle
and spilling
cereal all over your new
leather cushions.
I’m abhorred by every American
contributing to the obesity epidemic-
the fat, the lazy, the selfish.
I’m such a hindrance,
a mosquito bite
on the skin
of someone who hates change.
Hey, gimme a break,
will ya, scowling consumer
not covered by car insurance!
I’m just trying to spice things up, after all,
and if I need to sacrifice the daily flow of life
for a little excitement, so be it!
Let’s get real, here.
Are you really satisfied
with your undisrupted,
humdrum routine?
Are you content
with monotony?
Are you the
mundane, straight-to-DVD
type of person?
Or do you like thrilling
horror films
that cloud your vision
with suspense
and almost seem real
when you turn the lights off?
No one protects you from mayhem
like Allstate, they say.
But why would you want to be protected
in the first place?
I’m not dangerous…
not really.
I just like some adrenaline
now and then!
Is it so heinous
to enjoy the scream
frozen on people’s faces
when I help their uninhibited
inebriated mind
take the wheel?
You label me as the criminal
because I’m scruffy,
unpredictable,
and easy to blame.
If you’re so opposed
to a little risk,
if you’re going to hostilely sue me
for money I don’t have (I get paid half
of what the Gecko does),
if you’re going to whine and complain
about “crash this” and “death that”,
maybe you should buy their silly product
and protect yourself
from mayhem
like me.
This one is untitled, it’s a poem I wrote for my older brother, Max.
by Mollie March-Steinman
You bite your nails because you have to.
You have to move. Always.
Your hands are old hands. They have the scars
of rain-washed pavement, rough and veiny.
Years of carrots, sweet tates, and lack of greasy
foods have left your palms dry and orange.
The fingers are strong enough to break limbs
from trees, but precise enough to bead
broken jewelry, carefree enough
to pour sugar in the batter
with your hands as the measuring
cups, stopping short enough
that Mom can have some.
How do you do it, Max?
You could make shit taste good.
I’d rather not know if you have.
When you question authority, your brow furrows
politely, but I know those telltale signs,
those ripples of anger. I know when to speak
and when to hide, to quietly shut my mouth
when I see that you’ve had enough
human interaction. Most people don’t.
You are a sharp, sweet onion. Layer
after layer after layer. You make me so mad,
sometimes. When all I want to do is sing,
and you have a headache. When you’re right
and I’m wrong. Or when I know I’m right
but it’s not worth the argument. I get so stung
by your little remarks I fail to see you fighting
to keep them down, fail to see them rising
like word-bile.
When it gets really bad, when Dad
goes maniacal on your ass and his voice gets
hard and dangerous, usually at you, in the backseat,
when all five of us are stuck in a hot little car
with his indignation and your racking sobs,
that’s when I think I truly understand you.
That’s when all the layers get salty and transparent,
like seaweed paper, like tears in a petri dish,
and all that’s left is you, not chill, patronizing
Max, not cool Max with his Moroccan scarf
swag, not Max impressive with made-up statistics,
just baby blue Max, little boy Max,
and you are so real I want to strip
off all my layers and cry too,
because I get you, more than anyone else
in that car. Because you make me
feel real, too. You alone can
make me two years old again,
a chubby, dimpled blonde
with her face smeared in
chocolate cake, always
smiling, always looking
to her brothers
for the answers.
This is an older poem, one that I wrote in 8th grade.
Dreaming of You
by Mollie March-Steinman
Memories are
a slick fog,
moonlight
slipping through your finger tips-
So dim, so easy to forget.
Like a good dream.
You’re there in all my dreams
or some variation of you.
I remember once
you were spinning in a field
your feet a blur,
your wispy hair framing
your pale face like spun sugar.
You’re so small.
The grass, brushing your feet,
it looks soft.
There’s another.
You’re jumping up and down
mouth wide open in
a happy scream
blush filling your cheeks.
Holding your acceptance letter.
Time passes.
Your hair is shorter, your body wider.
You run from behind a curtain,
touching your lips,
and try to dance away the tears.
I like you here,
with your convictions that everything
will be okay. I like
your innocence and your smile.
While I may later reflect
on your mistakes,
the choices that lead to your tears,
I’ll never hate you.
You’re loud, annoying,
and individual.
Mollie, I love you.
Mollie, I miss you.
A much shorter poem from English class, inspired by a Sylvia Plath poem.
What You Read is What You Get
by Mollie March-Steinman
I’m a riddle in nine syllables.
I am ink marching on blazing snow.
I am black rows of deeper meaning,
I am dark thoughts sown through lettered fields,
seeping and twisting into cursive.
I eat poetry, bleed Poe and Plath;
my stomach aches with expressiveness.
Your eyes may be lined with blinding lies,
fog; but I am simple, paper thin.
Name Vignette
by Mollie March-Steinman
In Hebrew, my name means queen. Malka. My Great-Grandma Malka, who migrated from Russia to America at a time when Jews weren’t really welcome anywhere. She changed it to Mollie, my name. My shiny-white-teeth, fairy dust name. I am no queen. I’m the essence of un-surity. I’m the caterpillar who keeps changing her mind. I’m no queen. I’m the star of the sea. I’m a mermaid, conch shell, glossy pearl. I don’t sit on my throne and wait for something to happen. I make it happen.
I’m sorry if my voice is soft, but Mollie is soft. Mollie is satin, Mollie is flute music. She curls around your lobe and bounces off your eardrum. Wind-chimes. Mmm. Crunchy leaves. MO. Niagra Falls. LL. Birdsong. IE. Mollie is a symphony. Harmony.
Mollie is light to the touch. Cashmere. Fabric sliding through fingers like water. Mist. Dancing away with your reflection. Sneaky. Graceful. Unlike me. Careful! My name will tap-dance all over your tongue. She’s so mischievous, so spiderweb, so origami. Mollie burns like hot water on cold skin, sometimes. She can be dangerous.
My name smells like rain, and honeysuckle, and lavender. So fresh. Like sharp, sweet peanut butter. She smells like old books. Like stale memories. Like steel. Like warm, rising bread on a snowy day. Like comfort. Baby powder, coffee, bonfire. Roses. Smoke. Musk.
Tastes like manna, umami. Indescribable. Batter licked off the whisk. Basil leaves, mint tea, crisp apples. Fondue, buttery chocolate, champagne grapes. Strawberry pie, nutmeg, almonds. My name is tickling your taste buds. Like rhubarb, hazelnut, and rosemary cream; she makes you feel fluffy as egg white, creamy as yolk. My name is savory and delicious.
I love it. It’s cheerful and dramatic, like lightening bugs. It’s perfect for a peach-fuzzed baby, a rebellious teenager with confidence issues, or a shy, lonely old woman. It’s versatile, and it fits me perfectly, no matter what mood I’m in. My name has history, and character, and originality. Mollie. It’s Clementine and coconut milk and skipping stones and bubbles and toes squishing in the mud and jumping in puddles and music and frozen yogurt at Razzy Fresh and broken hearts and crying at the end of Harry Potter. Names are so important—the way they sound, the way they feel in your mouth. Names define you. I hope to name my daughter Alice or Peppermint or Lavender Sienna. This names will have different meaning to me than they will to anyone else, and I know beyond a doubt, that whoever she is, she’ll grow into them.
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