The Mythical She

Who is this mythical She?

The one who the 80's held up on a platform, shoulder pads and crisp waterfall bangs, diane keaton in a box suit selling applesauce to spite James Spader, boom, this baby's got fangs...
Who is SHE?
The once overachieving college student with a 3.8 GPA and an eating disorder, and bruises on her back from where she doesn't know how to lie down anymore
without shivering.

Who IS she?
And What does she do now that the roles she fought so hard again are suddenly her definition
and she doesn't want that definition
like the cross fit yoga mom infantry
surging across the horizen with their SUV strollers all looking each other up and down to see
whose spandex is bunching here
and whose latte cost more
and whose eye bags are bigger
and whose baby has the colic worse
and which of them  might have sneaked some gluten when the rest of the group wasn't looking?

Does she have an instagram account
she can be taken into account for?

Can I recognize the filter she used to make herself look less tired
and more productive
her house a little more expensive
her bowl of food a little more appetizing
her child a little more precious
her slip of the tongue
her forced ubiquitous sharing
her contrived colloquialisms
filling her and filing her into the boxes she once tore apart with the back of a hammer
in a room filled with sawdust and iron filings on mister america's promise of a dime coming back
as long as she pursued her dreams in an equitable manner.

Once
she was locked in a space
padded with expectation
she convinced herself she was mad
and the doctor reassured
HER
that she could swallow
she could
swallow
she
could
swallow
down her insecurities
this pill
those fears
and anything else
he might offer her
in exchange for
a good
night's sleep.

who is THIS mythical she?
The gossiping mongrel
breathing wine vapor through lipstuck teeth
and veloured decolletage
thumbing her mental lexicon for the
hip
hipp
hippest
build my sisters up
and tear them down
as I pick myself apart
brick by brick
because nobody likes a BRaggart woman
nobody likes a
happy woman
nobody likes
a woman
to be loud unless she's laughing.

And even then...
there are people who frown
who shake their heads because
mirth is the new girth
and obscenity is the new obesity
and feminism is the new diabetes
with every talking head
floating on a screen
saying hot button
push button
this button
words
like
I'm with her
I'm withher
I'm wither
I'm withered
down
by your demands
to the point of desiccation
to the point of being a woman sucked dry
by all that I can be
SHE.
Who
is she?
A destination?
A final resuscitation?
A last
gasp
at what we all wished when we were little
and someone told us we mattered.
Do you remember the last time someone looked you in the eyes and said
You matter?
Do you remember the last time someone
looked you in the eyes?
Do you remember the last time
you were able to look in the mirror and say your own name?

She
is walking down an alley and she wears your name on the back of her wrist in dayglo ink stamped on by a sweaty security guard with too much hair gel and she sees a shadow that is bigger than it should be and she is suddenly so filled with terror she can barely breathe.
But her mind
an anaerobic reflection of the day
is chastising her
for wearing that skirt, and those shoes.
You know the kind
the kind
you can't
run in.

She
is quitting her job because she can't come back from maternity leave because her child is still sick at 12 weeks, and because she doesn't even know if she's a person yet because so recently she was split in two like an atom, and we for some reason expect her to be the same afterwards,
as though someone can set off a nuclear bomb and see the same country reflected in their rear view.

She
is taking the misogyny in stride so that she can move up a pay grade, so she can get the corner office, so she can become partner and then, she is promising herself, then she won't take their shit anymore.

She
has a prayer for every student
has a picture of their homelife
has a portrait and a card and a drawing that they did on her wall
and she also has a bulletproof vest in the cupboard with the markers
just in case.

She is everywhere
and she is
you
and she is
me
and she is
STILL GOING TO BE HERE EVEN AFTER EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE TO HER
AFTER EVERYTHING SHE'S BEEN THROUGH
AFTER BLOOD
AFTER WAR
AFTER POVERTY
AFTER FLEEING
AFTER VIOLENCE
AFTER VIOLATION
SHE
STILL
IS.

And always will be.
She
the mythical
SHE.