The Act of Forgetting & Self-care Cult-ure

The act of forgetting:

My existence is cut down

to a timeline that only I remember

the editor in your mind has cut

all my scenes, 

every single line 

I had 

from your movie.

I exist in a film that was turned to ash, when the theater of your mind was set ablaze.

I am something that can never be recovered, 

not even my name. When you look at me,

you call me “Honey” with a polite midwestern smile, an act of courtesy not remembrance. And I mourn 

 

every moment you forgot.

Sitting in the theater in my brain, 

rewatching the movie of my life

skipping to the parts with you in them

all the times my parents, brothers and I would visit your house

sometimes for Christmas, or birthdays, or on mornings when we were in your town, in your state

and could bring you and grandpa a cup coffee and donuts from the Casey’s down the road

the day I brought you a sheet of my poetry, you read it and said “Well, I’ll be! That’s really something”, and patted my cheek-

And I can’t even tell anymore if that is exactly how that last memory went. And it was just a couple of years ago. 

As it turns out, my memory is not that much better than yours. 

Some of my memories have glitches, and the director in my mind has to reshoot the scenes, 

So I have something to hold on to. 

And even if it’s not the whole truth, not exactly what happened in the way it happened on the day it happened, my mind will race to catch the memories even as they slip beyond my grasp

even if all I have, is a kernel of the past, and everything around it is filler

It’s enough.

Even if it’s just a piece of the person you once were, the grandmother who loved and cared about me,

It is enough. 

Even if it’s scraps, it’s more than you have. So I will

Replay these broken memories, again and again and again until they sink so far into my head

That they make their way back home 

inside my blood and bones, so even if my recollection cannot carry the past

my DNA will

 

 

Self-care Cult-ure:

Another social media influencer

Influencing me

to buy facemasks that clog my pores, products that don’t work

convincing me I am not enough as I am

that I need a “glow up”

that everything about me needs to be fixed up.

My hair needs to be sleeker, my skin clearer, my body completely hairless, my thighs thinner

I can’t have cellulite,

No ‘hip dips’, stretch marks, or acne scars

I need a seven-step skin care routine, I need a workout machine

I need to wear more make-up, I need to wear less make-up

I need to wear ‘no make-up’ make-up.

Selfcare is

perming your eyelashes, bleaching your hair, using self-tanner, applying fake nails, whitening your teeth,

waxing your legs, contouring your face, drinking detox teas, buying someone’s hair vitamins, moisturizing and priming and toning and color correcting, irradicating all your blackheads, tattooing on your eyeliner, microblading your eyebrows, getting a Brazilian Butt Lift, getting a boob job, getting Botox, having dimples sewn into your cheeks

Selfcare is changing everything about yourself

no matter how expensive, painful, or scary it can be

do not pay attention to what can go wrong

In the cult of self-care cult-ure

your only value is what other people think of you

your beauty is measured by likes and shares, your worth based on anonymous comments.

If strangers on the internet are in the mood to act kindly towards you or to tear you to shreds.

The only thing that matters is that you hate yourself enough to keep doing “self-care”

Because what is the self if not a product you sell to other people?

What am I if not another salesman trying to get you to by a product you do not want?

Pick me, I can make you happy by draining the life out of myself

Do not pay attention to the pain behind the curtain.

All the tweezing and shaving and running and picking and popping and the make-up applying

see the fruits of my labor, and blindfold yourself

to the money, time, effort, pain, blood, sweat, tears

I put into looking nice enough for you.

Good enough for you.

Because what am I if not another product on the shelf

crying out for you to bring me home?

And what does it matter to you

if the way I take care of myself

is tearing me apart