one of my close friends told me recently
“I sat next to you in sculpture for a year
and I thought you hated me.”
I cried laughing, “WHY?!”
“well I get your sense of humor now,” she said.
I’m sarcastic and witty.
I chop fire wood when I’m frustrated,
drink beer with the boys,
cuss like a sailor.
I don’t mind kicking off my Manolos
and whooping your ass in a game of pool.
I remember going out one night,
ordering the darkest beer on the menu
and my date looking at me like I was crazy.
“don’t you want a mixed drink, baby?
you’ve got nothing to prove to me.”
I remember crossing my legs,
twirling my blonde hair,
turning to the waiter and saying,
“he’d like a cosmopolitan.
oh, and do you have one of those little umbrellas for it?”
my father taught me how to be ten foot tall and bullet proof
when he walked out the door.
my mother taught me how to make my own money,
pull myself up off the ground
and raise my manicured middle finger to the sky.
I remember my mom leaning towards the mirror
to put on her lipstick and thinking to myself,
“why can’t I be both?”
why can’t I run five miles in BCBG tennis shoes?
why can’t I shoot a gun wearing Marc Jacobs jeans?
why is it so hard to believe that a woman
can take care of herself,
save for nice things
and not be a total bitch?
I’m this whirlwind of woman
that most men don’t know how to love.
I guess I just always left my footprint in Dolce & Gabbana
and my heart at some shitty dive bar down the street
with the veterans talking war stories
and faded tattoos.
if you can make sense of all that I am,
if you can look past my long blonde hair
and shake my hand,