11 December 2012
Leaning against the wall, Larissa pushes a thumb into the back of her stiletto And slips it off her foot. Steadying herself, she does the same To the other And feels somewhat shorter and Lacking in grace
Walking up the stairs Larissa feels for the zip at the nape of her neck, And pinches it tight. She pulls it slowly down, And when she reaches the top of the stairs It tumbles off of her into in a silky pile on the landing This exposes her soft, milky body In the warm light of the stairway
Slipping her glittering earrings out And then pinching the catch of her necklace So that it drops to the floor and Skitters along the floorboards Larissa makes her way to the bathroom door And pushes it open
In front of the large mirror Larissa removes her makeup And pulls the silver pin from her hair Letting it tumble down in umber curls Around her soft shoulders. She thinks to herself How she looks like her mother And how that is not a good thing
Larissa steps through into the bedroom, and Stands, naked and alone in front of the mirror
She does not see the graceful bird With slender limbs and bright eyes That pouted back at her when she left At seven o clock that day For dinner with Martin. She sees Larissa She sees smooth, curving legs and arms, Punctuated by freckles And A long, thin neck, which is supporting Her pretty, but plain face. Her curved spine, bad posture, Leads down to wide, feminine hips, and a belly button Which, in youthful years, was pierced. She is less than perfectly shaped And her skin could use some attention But she feels at peace. It is only times like this: Still giddy from dinner And feeling the numbness in her extremities Of white wine That Larissa feels this at peace with the mirror
Larissa is Larissa, Larissa is being the version of herself Whom she only allows herself to see. The fragile, timid version, Who is not protected by layers of triviality, And who never steps out of these four walls. The version others would frown at, And say was 'pretty' but inside, would be judging, And would think to themselves "Someone could stand to lose a few" Or "I do not like her thighs!" In self-heightening moments. Here, only being inspected in return By her reflection She need not worry
She feels safe and warm, And likes to look at the real her, sometimes Because being 'Lara', with burgundy lips And graceful limbs is... Exciting But being Larissa is being real.
Larissa is Larissa, here
Getting Undressed • Opuss № I