cleopatra / d8 / (fin)

They say I encompass beauty—

A brown waterfall where flowers from the backyard garden would reside, freckles traced to a constellation, lashes as dark as the nights, russet brown skin and earthen undertones,

eyes like dark ochre.

Brush your hair every day, they make it a chore. Her eyes are better than Cleopatra’s, they make it a contest. Don’t let your hands go rough, they make it a crime. Those remarks are a part of why I don’t go to school regularly anymore.

If my mother’s taught me a lesson (which she has, many), it’s that beauty is relative and a bitch. She possesses everything I do—and more: high cheekbones, world-weary shoulders, a garden in her green eyes, a knack in herbology, an air of confidence.

Most of my features and talents, I inherited from her, a transfer of genetics. We plant together

but whilst she sells her herbs,
I press my flowers.

I don’t cultivate my beauty:
I let it grow to a wilderness.

Because the prettiest flowers
thrive and bloom and live there.

I’m not calling myself pretty, not that narcissistic- just appreciative.

But, during middle school, there were daily waves of love letters overflowing down my locker: dog-eared corners, a sea of grammatical mistakes (personally corrected each later), ‘Cleopatra’ in grotesque cursive, hearts scalpeled onto paper.

Most girls avoided me for it—which brings forth a sadness, because they talked like harmonious company for a starry night and appeared like overlooked beauties. The boys, on the other hand, were a darker tale: eyes ravenous for any exposed flesh, cat calls; they were my demons. Emphasis on the ‘were’ cause Cleopatra conquered them, arose above.

What warded them away was an occurrence near spring break; the letters were doubled: hate mail, poems, accusations, shitter grammar. I shoved them in a bag and headed for the court. A drizzle of lighter-fluid, plus a match—and they smoldered away, to embers and ashes. Absurd metaphors, poorly drawn lines, slanted handwriting; scorched and charred.

Earned me the title ‘bitch on fire’.
it was more than worth it.

There’s not much to this beauty anyways: my nails are untrimmed on most days, I reek of greeneries, volume-less hair, uneven clothes. The mirror blurs out these physical features every time I scrutinize myself so it’s more crucial to steer my focus elsewhere—to things that matter, which is a one-word grocery list:

1. persona.
2. future.
3. love.

Two friends at school; they call me humorous, a one-girl comedy show. And, heart worn on my sleeve, I openly show whatever hard feelings I have: an eyeful of tears, a mouthful of grins. Because, what’s the worth in veiling, as opposed to expressing yourself vividly. Is it better to hide, or to seek?

A great aspect of school: the four-person drama class. It’s not populous or recognized by most students as they consider it worthless—but I want to be an actress.

So most evenings,
we recite dialogue,
try on costumes.

Its cheap fun, always brings glow to my dog days. And, the teacher, with horn-rimmed glasses and a pool of anecdotes, share his days of glory: first loves, last reaping, the stage, local plays. He taught old laws: how to shed real and synthetic tears, dominance of physical space, articulation. I remember playing an estranged daughter and crying out jewels because I missed my late father.

he reminds me of my late father
my ochre eyes, my humor
cancer between two lungs
we buried him at dawn, at our hearts.
a mahogany coffin, a black dress
i devoured my first cigarette
after his funeral, as i undressed.

But, a good actress doesn’t let tragedies get to her. She reads the script, the costume fits, and plays the role exceptionally—this world alone is our makeshift stage; there’s an audience to bedazzle, a spotlight to bathe in.

I am Cleopatra and maybe I’m aiding in dress room emergencies, maybe I’m a girl lost in the shadowed-out audience, maybe I’m the one who wrote the script-

maybe, i am under the limelight.

A sea of adversities: 
our unpaid rent
daily groceries
the hazy future
my mother
labored me
and she say:
i was not
born to drown.
but to swim.

So, on dog days, ochre circles look above, skyward—to where aviators reign, and a kingdom of lilac clouds rest. In its infinite vastness, I see light, freedom, hope, an escape, my father, my mother.

If a five feet nine’ girl can house a sense of vastness in between her small ribcage: her future can afford to be a construct of creative hope too.

This sounds awfully melancholic—and that’s okay: sadness is a part of our cerebral cortexes; one can’t wish it away as they would a cold, or a tragedy. I make it a chore to tame it down, school it manners and attach a name:

my sadness goes by Jessica, ‘Jess’ for short.

‘Love’ is crossed out on my grocery list because it’s out-of-stock. At least, that’s what the cashier tells me. But, I can grow it naturally—water it daily, provide it a pack of fertilizers, and maybe, it can even blossom one day to a hand that keeps mine warm, an embrace for me to submerge in, a face for caresses, a sun to worship.

There’s more to Cleopatra,
than eyes, body and flesh
there’s thunder, and flowers
there’s wonders and lusters.