Better, by Melissa Felson
and promised myself
I wouldn’t come out
until I was “better.”
no one taught me
that better
is not a chalked line in the dirt,
that there is no
bronzed medal with gilded rim
reading:
Better. Fit for consumption.
so long
that my lips became my eyes
and my eyes become
huge craters
I couldn’t climb out of.
But I didn’t care for climbing anyhow.
I became a master excavator.
albeit lonely.
refusing hands of rescue
reaching out from the rim.
in fact,
not fine,”
reads the narrator.
that dogs see in black and white,
but I am not a dog.
I am human.
so I err.
I am human,
so I am flawed.
so no amount of
excavation,
recreation,
reflection
or divine inspiration
will deem me “better.”
I am human,
so I am enough.
I look amazing.
They beg:
tell us your secret.
what have you been doing?
I’ve made some changes to my diet.
external validation
in my morning coffee.
packaged sweetener
made of
artificial
Instagram likes and
bending over backwards like
acrobatics for attention;
blending myself into
you for approval
like stirring in your
favorite brand of
soy milk even though
soy makes me sick.)
I opt for the real thing these days.
Organic
connection and
act natural, which is to say:
Don’t act.
Be.
I’m not perfect at it, but –
I tell them –
Life is much sweeter this way.

