No Synecdoche

I am not

NOT

not

about to pick apart the pieces of myself

tear out a ventricle here

a molar there

a fingernail and a stretchmark

sew them all together with

pretty words (much prettier than this

much cleverer than this

but not mine own) in a shape of a snowflake

to say

HERE I AM LOOK AT ME- look at this

collage of mine I have picked it from

parts of a whole and look at that beautiful

synecdoche

a ventricle becauseshecares a molar becauseshesmiles a fingernail becauseshesnervous a stretchmark becauseshesfat.

Well I do care. I do smile. I’m nervous, and I’m fat.

And that bloodied collage does not scratch the surface of what I am.

I could say I am only me when I am no longer in control,

when I’m a hulkish mess,

on the floor howling,

soaking in my own mucous.

That’s #nofilter, right?

There’s your

bloody

collage.

Except that’s not

me (or not the whole me and you know what I used to love synecdoche and I do I still do it’s just that

a part of a whole leaves a bit of a hole).

My filters are a part of me because my mind my thinking mind for all its worth is worth nothing when it’s pulled

apart

to my basest instinct my #nofilter my #nofilter is survival and I do that ok

but I am worth a whole damned lot more than survival.

And yeah granted

I don’t even use Instagram and the days I wear makeup are few and far between and coffee kind of makes me sick to my stomach and it’s a lot harder to filter a heart that’s on your sleeve

so maybe my life is a little #nofilter already but I’m sick and tired of being asked about the #realme without all this #technology and “newfangled” #vanity

because that question is a #filter since it’s asking me to be #onething.

My #filters are #mychoice and made up of my cells like every other part of me.

(I use the filters

I like the ones

I want

the ones that make sense in that mind that thinking mind that

is

me.

And if I can’t be my choices

what the hell

are you asking me to be-

I’m no synecdoche.)