little red dress

perfect_slut

dinner party
Nokyoung Xayasane

There is more dignity
in the homeless people
on the streets
than there is
at this dinner party.

The crisp white napkins,
the many forks and knives and spoons.
Sometimes I want to rip
the white linen tablecloths
off the wooden tables
of this tennis club.
Splash the walls
with colours of reds and whites.
Set fire
to the vodka and bourbon and spirits
on the countertop.

I walk out in my little red dress
and an old man with white hair
says some appreciative.
I smile.
I am docile,
and accommodating,
as is my way.
This is how we act in public, I tell myself.

There is no dignity here.

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.