Shields

I have seen what will make me happy,

what will finally fill the hole
in my life
that I became acutely aware of
soon after becoming a teenager.

I have seen my height and weight not as numbers
but as enemies. As evil things,
barring me from the happiness of having
the perfect combination of numbers,
that ratio so desired.

I have seen days and nights
(with parties, dates, and approving glances from across the room)
march silently past--
as a young boy watches soldiers.
wistfully, from the outside,
longing for a chance to fall into the ranks.

I have sat as girls with bodies
I quietly envy
tug self-consciously at hemlines
pat discontentedly at nonexistent stomachs
and shake their heads about barely-there thighs

I have looked in the mirror,standing
in the same spot they stood,
thinking that if they--
who took up so much less space than I--
are dissatisfied
then I do not have permission
to ever be content.

I have seen them like warriors--
applying their war paint of eyeliner and lipstick,
slipping shining dresses over their heads
like the frailest of armor,
and holding sequined clutches in front of them
like the smallest of shields.

and
I have seen that though
my heart
tells me that if I could be like them,
I’d be happy--
I have seen that this is
not always true.

I have seen their armor, crumpled
on the floor, their war paint
streaked with tears of broken promises.
their shields powerless to the force
of the night and its demands.

I have seen that
slipping silently into sparkling
cocktail armor
does little to protect from the
sharpness of life's arrows,
and does not ensure happiness.

I have seen all of this, but like a child
surveying a corpse-strewn battlefield
with an ache in his heart,
a deep desire to join the fight,

I long for my turn
to put on the frail armor
to coat my eyes with black and smoky shadows
and to plunge bravely into the night
armed only with a small,
dazzling shield, and a fading
false belief in the power of my
body
and its perfect combination of numbers.