Surreal down to my stomach by Emily H. Sturgill

Surreal down to my stomach by Emily H. Sturgill 4/4/15

(All rights reserved-but can be re-posted as long as you credit myself & my blog- All Artwork & Images also by Emily Sturgill.

)Camera madala13 madala12

Surreal down to my Stomach

Swallowing coffee along with

my vowels, consonants, poetry

vomiting here and there

words on my pages

endlessly.

Surreal down to my toes

Eating fairy tales at breakfast

munching on the crunchy

internet with its crisp edges

and social networking sites

I eat them whole

with a gulp

but my eyes are too big

for my stomach.

tossing up cookies

throwing up twitter

puking up facebook

hoping to feel better.

Surreal down to my bones.

my bowels do not work

right or I would be

shitting out sentences

pissing out punctuation

defecating out imperfections.

But I cannot. Even sit straight.

I am nailed to my bed.

Attached to a couple of heating pads

choking on endometriosis

and puking out the Sun.

Surreal moments.

Time passes me by.

Always this cramping, constant feeling of unwellness.

Endometriosis has shattered my heart-beat

into two rhythms.

into two pumps of poetic pulsing

rapid flowing & cursing

pumps of blood.

Surreal down to my Skin.

Surreal down to my Stomach.

Surreal down to my toes.

Surreal down deeply-

surreal down to my bones.

The mythology behind being female

The Mythology behind being female:

Emily Sturgill

Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Mythology behind being female:

We are taught from the time

we are very little that what matters most

is how you look on the outside

not how you really feel.

Are you pretty enough?

No, well then we have lots of stuff

let’s add some eyeliner, lipstick and a bit of blush.

Do not dress like a tomboy or wear your sweatpants

outside the house.

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust

because it’s the outside the matters most

it’s the pastel shingles on your exterior house

do not show them your true colors

don’t display fear like a mouse

don’t throw tantrums like children do

it’s unbecoming beneath the beauty

of you.

The Mythology behind being female:

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust.

The mythology of being female

suggests a magical facade, and a white picket fence.

Girls should never get angry, defensive or dirty.

Girls should always play nice.

But sometimes the wildness in me

unleashes a feminist and I feel

like my exterior has cracks, my mascara runs, I get angry

I cry easily, I put on those ugly sweatpants

and I refuse to act lady like.

I embrace all my curves, the ones I was “taught”

are called ugly or fat.

The Mythology behind being female:

Sometimes despite the Mythology of being Female

I get annoyed, I get outraged, and I fight back.

against all the stereotypes that say

I should always put others first.

I should always play nice.

I should look pretty

and put a smile of my face.

because sometimes even when

I am trying to blend in

even when I am attempting to be

the ideal perfect version of me?

sometimes I just do not care at all.

 

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust, then what comes next?

Nobody likes hanging out with a hurricane.

Nobody enjoys an un-lady like version

of crass, profane, selfish, uncompassionate

messy looking, emotional lunacy

a loud version of profanity

and ultimately a vulgar shadow

of a hysterical woman

this collides with the Mythology of being

female.

 

All in a name

My name is She who,
walks with animals

and talks like a hyena laughing-
non stop fast paced flutter.

My other name is Girl Trapped beneath mirror.
She seems backwards and semi-self-conscious
this shadow like a plus size diva.

My secret name is spoken best in
murmurs and whispers
as I make it up as I go along,

flying by the seat of my pants.

My last name is merely Poet.
A common and often forgotten word,
once it carried so much weight
but now its barely to be heard…
Poet,Poet,Poet

She who walks with animals, and Girl Trapped beneath mirror
are both one and the same, then there lies a secret name always changing and evolving never to remind the same
my last name is common enough, Poet. There that is everything about me you will ever need to know,
oh that plus the small imperfect fact that sometimes , some days, I am nearly insane.

The Stranger in my Mirror.

Picture 149      Sometimes Shocking to see,

the Stranger in my Mirror, who looks like Me. I recall younger days, thinner versions,

Once upon a time, I was most likely,

just as cocky as Miley-

just not as famous.

What do you do? Once you lose that smooth small stomach,

the perky C bra breasts, the stride in your step, the seduction upon your hips,

the fullness of your lips, when the age of youth disappears,

and you become a M’mam instead of a Miss?

When you look into the mirror, and a stranger sits?

Glaring back at you, dimly-reminding you faintly,

that beauty lies in the beholder-instead of the girth of your thighs.

I am blessed to look many years younger-than I really am.

It’s a trick of my Mothers gene pool.

Wrinkles and gray hair do not scare me-no way-anyway.

I really do not mind.

But sometimes, I look at the Stranger in my Mirror-

and can’t help but think,

I am rocking middle age, despite my Venus Size.

I can still feel beautiful even when there is,

a media war, a rampage of BMI’s, a negativity upon

the average woman who is judged to be

“Plus-sized.” I can still feel my beauty, when my husband

looks at me that way, he once did all those years ago,

into the land of yesterday.

 

Something broken

She cannot put a finger

on why, but there is something there

deep inside

broken and rusted

despite being encased in honey

and a touch of lovely

love.

She knows that the two parts must connect

come together and securely fit

in a mechanical motion

to produce an organic product

1/2 of her and 1/2 of him

that’s all the recipe calls for

and yet she cannot put her finger on it.

The two come as one well-maintained machine,

but nothing is ever produced or created.

She does not know why,

simply feels the bareness

on the inside

longing to know why she cannot fix

the broken pieces deep inside

and she just feels

a touch of something kinda, something that is, something where the;

sadness grows.

 

On the flipside

On the flip of a dime,

and I will change my mind, about life, about hope

about the everything that comes after.

One day the sun, shines so fine,

the very next day I feel gray

lost in the clouds, in the darkness beneath.

Why is serenity so unreasonable?

One moment I have it-here in my clenched hands.

The next moment serenity is gone, in a puff of smoke.

When is serenity something just out of grasp-

a simple singular momentary strand of hope

like two fragile eggs, it fell then it broke

the messiness of yellow-tinged orche yolk

disgustingly i pull my hands away

horrified by the realization,

I have wasted much of my day away.

Not on more dreams, but more of the doom and gloom

stuff. The sadness which breaks apart into thundering

stormy clouds-yet I swear for one moment the sun was

shining-now naught remains,

besides the ghost of chill there

and the darkness in the air.

regression into depression.

sinking deep, the ground crashes around me

mud eating my bare feet.

Got my hair-re-did. Yay!

Picture 94Before shot, to the left. Lucky for me, I have a niece who went to Paul Mitchel beauty school. She takes care of my mop. I give her small pieces of art in return, since I am not working, as of yet. Book sales are also very slow.I’m still looking for a job in my field, but it has yet to manifest.

Picture 105 Picture 107 Picture 108new hairsyle may 1 2013 by Leah self portrait 05012013 Watercolor Adobe Self portrait new hair may 1 2013

Off-center

feeling a bit,

off-center, a bit out-of-whack,

feeling on the verge

of another;

Panic Attack.

Feeling off-center,

dealing with issues of infertility,

feeling hopeless-like a sailsboat-without sails-

so instead of sailing-

i simply float-there-off-center.

Many other Women,

do this dance of infertility & madness,

it seems to always feel like its the woman’s fault.

although it may even be the mans…

that concept seems far-fetched and hard to grasp.

Each month,

I hope, although I never bother to pray,

but i hope things will be different,

that somehow our childless lives will change.

Some women, chart their cycles religiously, take their basal temps each and every-day, using ovulation predictor kits, or invest in high cost treatments like IVF. I cannot afford things like ovulation kits or IVF treatments, or alternative therapies.

I can barely afford the one thing I’ve got:

a thing called Hope.

That’s all i got, and sometimes it does not feel enough,

as if, i am just mere inches away, from touching the sky.

Last month, pain was horrible. I wound up in the ER and diagnosed with 2 cm Ovarian cyst.

This month not only my mind, but my body has been playing tricks on me.

I swear, I’m having pregnancy symptoms despite my monthly bleed.

My period just was not heavy enough to be normal-even for me-and the PMS still has not gone away,

yet the bleeding did. It came 2 days early, I usually count day 1 as any spotting-but technically they say to start count from the first day of true blood. Which would mean i really only had a sort of period bleeding for only 2 days the other 3 were brown spots and inconsistent. I’m still having bad cramps, and i keep getting sick to my stomach, and my boobs hurt so badly when my hubby bite my nipple 2 days ago it still hurt 3 hours later. Food bores me-i have loss all interest. Even stuff i like fails to excite. Hate to say it-been pregnant before-feel that way again.

I’m sure tomorrow they will give me a hpt urine test before my MRI-

just off-center, feeling confused on what they will find.

I wanna get a new tattoo

I have not gotten any more tattoos since my last major mania in summer 2007.

I have one, in mind, i have wanted a really long time. It’s of a tarot card from the very first tarot deck i ever owned. My husband is against this because he claims that the Tarot freaks some people out AND while i know he is right, the inner gypsy in me cannot stop longer for this tattoo. His other argument is invalid-it concerns my ability to get a job. The reason that that argument is completely invalid is i already have tattoos all over my arms which when and if employed i will have to cover anyways-so one more on my arm, will not make a difference to anybody but me, and i feel it would make me happy. Because I have wanted this tattoo for a very long time now.

 

My loving hubby has no room to critque, argue, or talk anyways. The guy has an entire sleeve tattoo on his right arm and an entire back piece too. Part of why i fell heads over heels for him was all his tattoos-he has way more than i do, and it makes me feel left out.

My sister-in law, does tattoos-she did my last one in fact. I just do not know if she would be willing to do another, because i have no job, i cannot pay her anything. I offered to “barter” a painting in exchange-we’ll see-she probably will say no. But its worth a shot. Geez, its been 6 years since i got any new ink.