Succulent

 I remember being a young girl scanning any room I was in. Classrooms church halls, skating rings—anyplace all the time Ranking myself compared to the other young girls there. In the top spot there was a skinny yellow toned girl one with long fluffy hair and dark full lashes. Legs that weren’t stumpy but slender… they made gym shorts look fashionable. Then there was a brown skinned girl with neat braids and figured like a girl from music videos, she had it all, and all of us wanted it. We wanted the trendy jeans and the puffy coat cropped so you wouldn’t miss the cool curves that arrived before ours could. These two were almost always close friends. Then there was the eccentric girl unlike any of us. Maybe she could draw or jump high or play games we didn’t. She didn’t care about anyone, especially the boys and we envied her nonchalant beauty. Baggy jeans and dirty chucks but still somehow soft and precious like she deserved to be cared for.

 

I would fall somewhere way after. After the girls with lighter skin and longer hair and smaller waists. I would file in after the girl who balanced smart and pretty effortlessly. The one whose mom only straightened her hair once or twice a year for a trim, behind her glasses she was just as beautiful as a model vacationing in Milan for the summer.

 

I always saw myself as plain. Plain but interesting My interest and my personality were the only things I knew how to manipulate. I didn’t understand how to do my hair nicely or what to wear that was flattering and cool. I couldn’t change the circumference of my thighs, are the fullness of my nose, no matter how hard I tried. I could listen and adapt I could see that I was not great but not that bad either and hopefully I’ll make my way to the winners circle with charm—a personality hire.

 

I never felt like someone should see me as a precious priority. That I was worth someone’s public affection or gently gestures, I always felt comfortable seeking connection in secret. After-hours or hidden away on the sidelines.

In the rare instances desire made it’s way to me, I took control of the organic interaction and sprinkled it with distractions and artificial fertilizer…hoping that it would grow. Instead, it died quickly—an overwatered cactus. Wilted and decayed but I placed it on the mantel collecting more and more and more. Learning from each failed attempt…becoming wiser in my manipulation. I can finally keep life alive. But the fruit it bears isn’t sweet or nutritious. To me it is better than no fruit at all. But is rot better than famine?

 

Have I been nourishing myself with poison? Surprised that I have not grown stronger.

When the crop I rely on for definition will surely wither if I don’t center it’s care and feeding, I spend my time in fear.