I am not beautiful
Nokyoung Xayasane

When you told me
you were fucking her,
I felt nothing.

Not much has changed
since you left.
I still wake up in the morning
and make my coffee.
I still laugh with friends in cafes.
I still find beauty in the pink light
punching out from between
condos and high rises.
I flick the light switches
on and off
to watch the shadows
emerge and disappear.
On New Year’s Eve I kissed a girl,
and it was fine.
All weekend, I fucked a stranger.
I drank all night
and threw up in my wastebasket.
I feel nothing.
I feel everything.

Sometimes when the loneliness
presses hard
against my chest,
I lie my head on
my own splayed arm
and with my other arm,
I cradle myself.
When my head feels hot,
I lie my face against the vanity
to feel its coolness.
I hope it will
enter me
and I will be refreshed,
renewed,
someone different
from myself.

I stood on the corner
of Broadway and Yonge
and watched the snow
carefully descending,
pirouetting from the sky,
and the darkness
a backdrop
for a city living.

I felt alcohol and weed surge
through my blood as I made
my way to the subway
with condoms and fresh panties
in my pockets.
Semper paratus,
as they say.

I fuck strangers
and wake from the sleep of them.
I am weak, I know,
and vengeful. I am not beautiful.

(January 2016)