Reflections

with a line from a Maybelline commercial

Some faces look fine, other faces look flawless.

I was blessed with less acne than others, for one thing,

and insulated from public-school pressures for perfect

brows or lips or eye-lining wings. Oh, I experimented:

eye shadow in shades both natural and unnatural,

lip glosses or dark-lined lipstick, lash-plumping mascaras.

Nothing ever looked quite right—certainly not

expert, given how close I had to get to the mirror to see,

much less my lack of knowing what to do, what was needed.

My first major experience with a full face of makeup

was for a stage production, where everything had to be

exaggerated. I caked on tan foundation and used the bushy

brush to apply strong spots of blush. In the mirror, my face:

alien and airbrushed to some version of perfection. These days,

I find myself frequently straddling the line between.

I find myself frequently straddling the line between

what I want to be and what I’m told I should be.

At first it started small: wanting dark eyeliner

or black lipstick. Anything to make me less

approachable, or feminine. Disdaining makeup

and, to my shame now, girls who wore it.

I wanted to not be one of them, while being told

I needed to be one of them. To be seen:

isn’t that what I mean? I mean there’s no way to

properly convey myself. Over the years

that’s only become more true. How do you balance

what you know you are and what you’re told

to be? My life a constant see-saw between

flinching at the mirror and smiling wide.

Flinching at the mirror and smiling wide,

noticing every imperfection: thick glasses

framing bad eyes, creases carved between

brows, insistent curves, round rosy cheeks.

I eye myself like a marketing major, find

flaws from head to toe. Nothing can hide them

or the shame I see in my too-squinty eyes.

Even now, I am hesitant to call myself handsome.

Where do you hold shame in your body? I asked

myself last night, and the answer is still lodged

in my throat like an unruly bone. The body is

judged regardless of what it wants, or for its wants.

Society’s standards or what makes us happy: it’s

a high-wire act; I’ve always been so-so at balance.

A high-wire act I’ve always been so-so at: balance

between performance and authenticity. Once, I was

told I was sitting with too-wide knees, unladylike

despite my long skirt. The comfortable made shameful.

For a long time I didn’t know how to dress, vacillating

between hyper-feminine and hyper-masculine.

Overcompensating in one way or another. Over

-writing myself with newer selves, each closer to reality.

The balancing act never becoming easier; concentration

becoming a fact of life. I’m the delicate china cup

and the bull who’s about to smash it to pieces.

Do I know who I am when I’m not performing?

Will my tightrope treading fail me one day?

Even now, I catch myself falling.

Even now I catch myself falling

between desire and duty, stripped

to bones—bodiless shell, empty eyes—

too easy to slip into hopelessness.

Sharks have flat black eyes that stare

endlessly out at your blue-lit face.

A crab without a shell is just a hermit.

A socket without an eye is just a void.

When bone bleaches under desert sun

it is most honest; when desire bares itself,

it lies. It took me a long time to figure out

what I wanted. I’m still not sure I know.

The camera is another soulless eye. I lean

into old habits as I scrutinize every selfie.

Old habits: as I scrutinize every selfie,

I focus too much on my uneven eyes and

laugh-carved lines—not seeing the shifting

out of the past and into the future. I drop one eyelid

in thought (not sure when I picked that up)

as I consider the new chiseling along my jaw,

only visible when compared. I’m glad I’m started

taking photos when I did, or I wouldn’t realize.

The camera is another type of eye, often

(though not always) impartial. It always

must be aimed according to someone’s taste.

In this case, I am both seer and seen.

I carefully aim, find the best angle.

I’m pleased with what I see these days.

I’m pleased with what I see. These days

the mirror tells a different story: all smiles

except when I’m sad, and even then my eyes

have an intricate light in their shifting irises.

I exercise a little less control—when I speak

my voice has a different timbre. I text my mother.

If I didn’t want to say it, I wouldn’t write it down.

Anything you see of me is carefully curated.

At least it used to be. Some things are no longer

in my hands, which look the same as ever, rings

of fingerprints unchanged, silver bands on each finger.

What of me remains the same anymore? Some thing’s

inevitably changed: I’m not who I was. It’s true

modern problems require modern solutions.

Modern problems require modern solutions—

so what is your modern solution going to be?

You need to make a decision, and quickly,

even though they say it’s never too late.

You know better, though. Old dogs, new tricks;

isn’t that what they say too? Every day you look

at your body in the mirror and wonder why

it is the way it is, if you could change it.

Your body is a temple. No, it’s a wrestling

ring waiting for the people’s elbow. No, it’s

some deep-water creature that’s never seen light. No,

it’s a scientist’s bubbling beaker. All of these

are true. What I mean is,

change at a molecular level sends a message—

Change (at a molecular level) sends a message.

The body becomes a message in a bottle. I’m

throwing it into the world’s ocean without expectations;

I’m letting go for once in my goddamn life.

Nature abhors a vacuum, someone says—

[space] demands something fill it except

I resist. The abyss stares back in the mirror,

dark eyes demanding. (I give it my best sneer.)

Buying signs or shirts isn’t enough—speech

precedes actions anyway, at least in my world.

Release a bitten-back declaration; write the words

for the first time and witness them in print. Yes.

Like that. Stop being afraid to take up space.

It’s time to be done caring about what people will say!

it’s time to be done caring about what people will say

is easier said than done. i still bite my tongue

in certain spaces and not always for safety. my hair

alone gives me away, though, a five-alarm fire saying

someone queer is here. visibility and respectability are

not the same, but both can be a trap. i’ve given up on

the latter but can’t avoid the former. this is a source of

stress. it’s also a choice i keep making, every time.

what’s the best way forward? i constantly debate this with

myself even as friends urge me to do what i need.

what do i need? how do i know? these are the questions

i’m in therapy for. is being myself worth the struggle

of explaining every time? coming out is never once-and-done.

i make myself a map / i send before i second-guess.

I make myself a map I send // before I second-guess

what I say / I put the words into the world // a guide

for you to follow // orient yourself to this new place //

we’re off the edge of your map / but not mine // see /

it’s easier than you might think // to understand / isn’t

it? // the signs are there / clear as moss on trees or

bright north stars // they’re just not what you’d expect

unless you know what to look for // listen / look /

even when ignored / at least I put things out there //

remember how it was ignored by the woman you refuse

to name? // how it felt to enter that world / every day //

you can’t forget it / a year ago my world was so

different than it is now // I sometimes regret how I

journal joys and sorrows / I’m tired of this telling //

journal joys and sorrows I’m tired of this telling

becoming pain in the body a new thing

not quite alien not quite known

understand this has been coming for years

has been dormant for years the thing is

to know it was always here even if they

want to tell you otherwise or that you don’t

understand what it is a thought encoded with

data only now coming into focus easy

to mistake for something else a feeling

but not just a feeling something concrete

realer than real down to your bones you know

it isn’t going away as if you’d want it to

every trial an opportunity for rebirth

Every trial an opportunity For rebirth

take one phoenix & add flame Watch carefully

as something small & ugly nudges its way out

from silvery ash It’s possible you know

More ways than this to destroy yourself &

rise Build yourself wings on the way down Isn’t

that what someone said Doesn’t matter who You

remember it Icarus grasped the sun We’re sure

Everything is possible we know this Now

letting go is something to be Desired at last

achieved we reach into an unknown Future

a mouth full with laughter Scrub the skin clean

of past pains Scour yourself in flame See

My body no longer metaphor Speaking for itself

my body no longer metaphor is speaking for itself:

brittle wind & the sound of distant thunder

branches dislodging a bluebird ’s careful nest

scent of fig bergamot & leather thick in

hushed air under-eye liner forest green

moss beneath bare toes gentle as

the cat purr rumbling in the shell of a pink ear

bitter kale nutrient-rich & bitten crisp

a mouth shaping words yes this I me

muddled blue-green eyes earnest voice

deep & soft hands clutching a smile

fitting on the face for once it’s taken

so long but now you know this face its joy

some faces look fine other faces are flawless

some faces look fine other faces look flawless

I find myself frequently straddling the line between

flinching at the mirror and smiling wide

a high-wire act I’ve always been so-so at balance

even now I catch myself falling

into old habits as I scrutinize every selfie

I’m pleased with what I see these days

modern problems require modern solutions

change at a molecular level sends a message—

it’s time to be done caring about what people will say

I make myself a map I send before I second-guess

journal joys and sorrows I’m tired of this telling

every trial an opportunity for rebirth

my body no longer metaphor is speaking for itself

Griffin Rockwell

Reflections