Part of my poetry collection, Margins of the First Draft. I had an idea when I actually collected the original poems together. They were supposed to tell a whole story all together and I wonder if anyone even noticed haha.

I wonder where this original plot even came from now that I read these again. I guess that's what reading 19th century plays does to you.

(Authors Note)

The Meeting

Dearest mother,

Today I did my face,

Subtly and garishly

My cheeks the colour of peonies

And my face pale from fear

My eyes swollen from the arsenic

I haven’t slept in days

Poetry on the Margins #8 A Pretty Kind of Grief

What is it about over-romanticizing sleep deprivation and lunacy?
Or the Victorians using questionable chemicals on their faces or in beauty creams?
Or the wallpaper, kids' toys, baby bottles?

Is it a tragedy?
A quiet desperation of a woman in love?
Or just a delicate poem —
just for the sake of being,
delicate?

Why do I picture a young woman with long blonde hair and deathly pale skin,
with her sunken, red, swollen eyes,
marching around her room with an open wine bottle,
looking through all of her dresses to find one that would fit?

But none are good enough,
so they end up on the floor,
and she keeps rummaging through her closet
in a lunatic manner, with tears streaming down her eyes —
because she never feels good about herself, or pretty,
and she just thinks that a perfect dress
would make her feel good.

But all she ever dreamed of was a pair of arms to hold her tight,
a voice to call her pretty — not just any arms, or any voice,
but his.

And with her hands trembling,
she adds a bit of blush to her face
and adds a few drops of belladonna to her eyes to enchant a man —
though, she probably would not have needed it anyway.
For every time she saw him,
her eyes lit up anyway.

Was it hysteria, or mania, that made her unable to sleep?
I guess we will never know.