Eulogy to Glitter

My achilles heel is glitz and glitter. I like the stuff that paints the world in colors it is not. There are so many deep, ironic, complex sides to me
and yet I fall for the superficial and superfluous. THese things, in turn, make me like their own. I look and smell like the things I am not; the things
you can see through. And so they call me easy. Easy to look at, easy to knock over. They have no idea how heavy I really am because I'd rather they didn't
see the marble and granite that makes up my feet; the iron my bones are made of; or the painful bleeding red that the right side middle of my chest is.
No one likes to look at that sort of thing anyway. So contour and cut me; mold and undo me. Love is not made, but who asked for love? Love can't be traded
or sold or earned; it is no efficient currency. It is not dependable and often insufferable and most people don't have much of it anyway. It cannot be
wasted on me and therefore I shall not ask for it. And I don't want your feeble attempts either; give me all or give me nothing.

I am the femme fatale; I conquer without knowing it and I kneel on my new empire in tears. And yet my land's landscape is desert, green pastures are for
the less sparkling and the more happy. I can't sing the tune and I can't dance to the beat but I will make these flabby legs and feeble voice try. Forever,
forever trying.

What if I stopped? And for a moment breathed? And tapped into the endless rest that is your own perfect glory? What if you re-made me? What if you break
me? What if you melt my iron and crush my marble and expose the bleeding red? Never, never. Oh I could never. Don't touch me. My warning goes off when
you do that. My stomach turns and I always, automatically, step back. I begin to burn and I hate burning, I hate this smoldering sensation that somehow
I need you. God help me! But not really.

You come to me subtly. You must, for there are few ways to really woo me. You come to me in dinosaur shirts and coffee pots; in pixie haircuts, poems soft;
Sometimes you wear secretary glasses and sometimes you have hippie hair. Sometimes Converse and satirical stares. You have so many faces but your eyes
always come through. Different bodies, different faces, but they all just look like you.


I hate ripped converse and your satirical stare. I hate how much I like you because of both. I Wish I could say "you're my forever best friend".
i do sorta love you but not the best or most. / I don't know you but I'm pretty sure I could. The cliches of the guitar boy are lost on you.
Wish I could say "you're my forever best friend", but I decided I won't till you do.

Deep and dear are the profundities to which my love for you plummets - but its outworkings stay so disgustingly close to the surface. I cannot know
how to delve deeper, and the culture you set me in doesn't help much with that. I beg you for an intimacy that I cannot know with any other human being,
and I surrender to you all of my desires - the sweetest and most precious my desire for love and companionship in a man. It is so old and cliche to you -
it must be. Girls for centuries have been giving up these desires to you. I offer my heart to you, Lord, as a gift, and I will have to offer it every
single day until I'm with you for real. I cannot pretend that I do not have them, which has been my plan of action until now. Simultaneously with this
realization has come a craving for a closeness with you that I know that man, whoever he is, will never fulfill. I cannot know love again unless my love
pours forth from a fountain that I already have with you. In fact, this concrete love can never really come close. Help me out there.