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  • Esty Rosenfeld

Broken Beauty

She once perceived herself as a beauty

She used to play around and be drawn by the endlessness of the ocean

She waited there for her turn to leave the pier for her cue to leave the queue

She wished to finally be cultivated enough to break free

But culture has shackled her hulk to the port, to the point of no return because she’s never actually left, never actually broken free

And even if she did, she’s never managed to completely draw away, complete withdraw

like the way the high tides repeatedly slap against the face of the shore

like the way the high tides can’t stop itself from and will always slap against the face of shore

like the way the high tides will never cease to slap against the face of shore


Like when she wakes up in the morning and tries on a heaping pile of clothes till she finds one that finely hides her broadened view of herself

Like the way she looks in the mirror pinching and squeezing herself

like a rag being wrung out

Like how she wastes her time trying to control her tone

Inhales deeply and grasps her waist all awhile gasping for air like the way the ocean peels back but only to then come crashing forward

She contorts her contoured face and ducks her cheeks to see if it’s hollowness is still as sunken as the titanic

She keeps seeing her bloated heart trying to leap out of her chest but it’s fat outweighs and drowns the muscle

And she hears her mind being malnourished by the heavy voices of her past

Telling her she does not have the right outlook

does not have the right frame of being

That outlook is the thin version of outfits and good looks and they only mean her frame isn’t bare,

That she isn’t mindful of what she’s consuming and she really isn’t

She isn’t mindful of what’s consuming her

They encourage her to tread and tow the fine line barefoot because a step with too much matter to it would not be refined, would not fall out of the narrow mould they have created for her

She cannot put her foot down because there’s something between her bones and the floor, because the floor of the ocean seems too far away

She knows her sound will be absorbed by the endlessness of the oceans that surround her

And they are just the tip of the iceberg that hit her

She’s been hit hard because beneath the surface is the scattered fragments of her vast confidence of a bygone era

She’s drowning in the largesse of the sea

Waving elegantly and slightly for help to all those who pass her by

But at least she is a mere skeleton of what she used to be

At least she is now perceived as a beauty

But she, she no longer knows how to look at herself and see her beauty

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