a face made flawless

 

I_am_not_beautiful

Beauty
Nokyoung Xayasane

Sometimes when I look at my face in the mirror,
I see a face made flawless
with makeup.
I wish I could wake up looking like this,
this beautiful.

And then I think about the forgiving nature of water,
how it restores and reveals,
how it shows my true face.

Sometimes I forget what my face looks like,
presented this way.
I am just me,
after all.
But I forget
I am also her.
I am her
to you and to others.

They like to remind me.
You are beautiful, they say.
Thank you, I say.
But that’s like being grateful
for your dark hair
or the symmetry of your lines.
Those are things you can’t control.

When I take my makeup off
I know
this isn’t me
either.

There is someone we all are,
someone in between,
in between the flawless
and the raw.

But I’ll keep on pretending
and maybe you will
too.

tight little thing

it is like this with love_black and white

tight little thing
Nokyoung Xayasane

Stunning.
Gorgeous.
Beautiful.

What do those words
mean to me?
Why are they flung at me
like wilted bouquets
like gaudy tennis bracelets
and oversized, clunky charms.

Can I wear those words
to cloth my nakedness?
Those words,
they bounce off me
like rays of light.

Stunning
doesn’t penetrate me,
Gorgeous
doesn’t define me,
Beautiful
doesn’t mark me.

Those words
are alien things to me.
I reach out,
and grasp them
with my fingertips.
I place them
in the palm
of my hands.
I turn
these words over
ever so
gingerly
like a petulant child.

Object.
An object.
I am an object.

I look
ever so
closely.
I look
beneath
the words.
Nothing.
I look
around
the words.
Nothing.

What is in
relation
to these words?
What are they near?
Tight little thing.
Nice ass.
Cock-sucking lips.

Those words.
Numerous.
Abounding.

Tell me,
do I stun
with my beauty?
Tell me,
do I shine
with my beauty?
Tell me,
are you
grimacing?
How come?
How come
if I acknowledge
those words,
if I am aware of them,
I am no longer
a modest mouse?
I am no longer
a demure lamb,
sunning itself
in the open air?

Diva.
Vixen.
Femme fatale.

These words.
Must they be
awarded
to me, only?
These cheap trinkets
I found them at the carnival.
These
commonplace toys
I found them
hidden
inside bubble gum machines.

You speak
and I am.
Is that how it is?
You choose
the words
at your discretion,
at your leisure.
I exist
at your will,
through
your words,
this tight little thing.

but we kept dancing anyways

I_am_not_beautiful

This will always last for us,
Nokyoung Xayasane

So much
was happening.
Did we even know?
We did.
But we kept dancing
anyways.
We just kept
dancing anyways.

And I thought,
we will never be
this young
and this beautiful
and this free
again.

So we just kept
dancing.
We just kept
dancing
anyways.

This will
always last for us,
I said
but
I didn’t believe it.

Nothing lasts.

So I just kept
dancing.
I just kept
dancing
anyways.

The music,
it stopped.
I ran
to catch
the 1:30 train,
and I thought,
This will
always last for us,
but
I didn’t believe it.

Nothing lasts.

So I just kept
dancing.
I just kept
dancing
anyways.

And I remembered
you were dancing
you were dancing, too.

You too
were
courageous.

And we kept
dancing.
We just kept
dancing anyways.

that expands and is everywhere

that expands and is everywhere

The Morning After
Nokyoung Xayasane

The light holds here
                        through the silken drapes
            hanging on your walls
            that separate
our murmured voices
from the outside world
 
I hold this memory
           like a   grain     of sand
                        encapsulated in time
                                    on the brink of            
                                                          falling
            through the overturned hourglass
 
The white sheets
                      still hold the brilliance
            of the night
 
Our laughter
                        effortlessly weaving
            a pattern on the ceiling
                        an open window
                                    letting in the evening air
 
Your books                on the mantel
                       ease me into
            the hollow
of your neck
the curve of my spine
           the small
                      of your back
 
Scattered        on the floor
                                 my blouse
                                            your jacket
 
Coming together
                                in the hours before
          filtered light enters
through curtained glass
that expands and is everywhere
 
           the warmth of the sun
                                    on silken drapes.

(September 2010)

I am not beautiful

I_am_not_beautiful

With you nothing is simple yet nothing is simpler
(Lines Depicting Simple Happiness, Peter Gizz)

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)