TheCourtRose

I never thought that doing modeling on the fun occasion would warrant crawling all over my friend's patio and onto the ledge of her roof. But hey, I've never done anything half way! Friend and clothing designer Niehla Ollie, creator of Chocolate Sushi Couture, needed a few shots of her skirts from her the fall line. I volunteered to model and spent a wonderful afternoon playing dress up in a plaid "Donna" skirt, grey "Marilyn" skirt, and beautiful opera coat in robin's egg blue. Veronica Romero was our lovely photographer. Very sweet. This was no an ordinary photo shoot. The three of us, Niehla, Veronica and I, were putting our heads together and auditioning for a reality show. Cast Iron Production Company approached us looking for women living and working in Chicago that were plus-size. The idea was to showcase a group of girlfriends that were plus-size and willing to be candid about their lives, their bodies and their struggles towards getting in s

In my dream you offered a beautiful emerald ring You loved me still- you said, We are fire and meant to be together You looked older and sad, blurring around the edges like a picture out of focus, not like yourself at all I chose a different man, long ago He was earth and water and patience, I fell into the cool, dark pool of his lips, water sizzled against my heated skin Seeing you, if only in the quiet of my mind, stirred my memories I could see the graveyard of airplanes, hear the music we made How easy it was for me to sparkle next to you, the unexpected circumstance My fire became addicted to yours- building each other up higher and higher There was no way down from those great heights In the dream, you said- He cannot make you feel the way I can He will not make you shine You tried to put the ring onto my hand I begged for more time, as if our choices were not yet made I remembered the warmth of being next to you, sitting on the bed of your truck

No thundering hooves follow my tracks It is not the Four Riders that come in my wake, but their creatures No bloody War No insistent Pestilence No heartbreaking Famine or sweet claws of Death It is the Fifth that follows me- the invisible Hounds of Hell They catch my scent time and again, chuffing at my heels Ever driving me forward, flushing me into a pathless forest I cannot shake them Despair, Depression Their nostrils erupt with cold, night air I can feel their breath next to my ear when I sleep Even in the silence of a clear day, the distant baying echoes in the recesses, reverberating in my mind- I am never alone From the desert and mountains, to the sweet rolling hills of the south, to the rainy torrents of the distant sea, they come again and again, the relentless pursuers of nightfall Salvation cannot find me on the run There is no light inside the forest I must turn, seek out the invisible forms and cry for battle I must defeat them, or

There are days I wake up singing you Your words and deeds are closer to my lips than my own Most of these mornings I don't mind at all Hearing your voice in my head makes my coffee taste like milk and honey, makes me want to kiss him goodbye before I leave I love the days I wake up singing you

If I could crawl inside caramel today- I would take a cup of coffee, a stack of bad movies and an armful of good books with me; I would snuggle down for the duration and swallow sunlight on my way in, so I have a light to read by whenever I smile.

She was kept secret from me the girl that came before The curve of her lips and color of her eyes haunt my dreams, and not yours Now I wish I didn't know the one that got away the one to never be I cannot compete with soft focus memory I am arguing with a ghost resenting a love that never bloomed wishing I had played hard to get so you can sigh my name, too If she dreams of me she will see my lips are snarling, my eyes bright green- eventually I will win and completely erase her mark from your skin

She's thinking forever and I'm thinking tonight A box of Lucky Strikes and icy china doll skin aren't conducive to a tomorrow Forever doesn't have stitched stockings like she does Be content with tonight, lovely and let's show each other what we think of the world What could have been rolls sweetly off the tongue like a stocking slides down a thigh

You're there and I'm here with usually a letter in between and enough wax and ribbon and perfumed lips to fill an ocean The scent of late summer sage wafts through your open window, city sounds float through mine We had time enough to run through the desert with plenty of memories to float every page in between One day you will visit my castle in the snow There will be plenty of winters for you and me Be patient, my pretty We can make snow angels and a safe, warm igloo and I will show you all the lines from my letters etched into the city streets You will see the world that has become my own and I hope when you return the silence of that first fallen snow will thrum within your hands enough to write me once more Your Cybil

He was the guy who hangs out with security and makes wise-ass remarks. Seemingly harmless and obviously tickled by his own perceived cleverness, and the fact that security has yet to tell him to leave off. I stopped in for the ATM, tolerating his attention for the two minutes I had to stand there. That distinct Friday-night smell was hanging in the air; alcohol, worn carpet and pheromones. I had already met one of his kind; continually jerking-off his own words, and expecting the world to reflect the kind of logical cynicism you can't argue with without running the risk of admitting you're an optimist. The first time I met him I engaged his battle, enjoying the spar, but forgot him as soon as I got home. When we met again, I didn't remember him at all but he reminded me that I had worn a bright red coat, with boots up to my thighs and that I had insulted him. I remembered the conversation because he had said that you should pick a lover who's like

Riding on the "L" from Evanston, way up on the northside and at the end of the Purple Line, (For non-Chicagoans, it's about as far away from my house as you can get.) my hip is throbbing from my second round with circus class and my head is spinning from therapy. As I get closer to the southside I can feel some of the tension leaking away and I know that soon I will be home; I can put ice on my ass and stomp around in frustration. (Well, limp around animatedly in frustration, anyway.) I'm sunk into my hoodie and pretending I'm the only one on the train when a gaggle of teenage girls sit in my vicinity. I keep my eyes averted but tune my ears in, prepared to be irritated/entertained by their conversation. Their voices take on the important edge of people who are convinced they should be listened to, and lets face it, who doesn't love hearing teenagers fling their hormones at each other? One girl in particular stands out to me because she's wearing a strip

1. in the car I asked if the Big Dipper was full of milk, he said that the Milky Way filled it up and one day it would tip over and flood the world; I asked if blood had stripes and polka-dots and she said absolutely- the house is still covered in unicorns and crystals, walls lined with books and glass though water seeps through the tiles now- the plumbing finally giving in as I watch from hundreds of miles away 2. Nancy Drew in my coat pocket, a mystery on a slow night takes me away and I think that one day I will be as brilliant- crawling on hands and knees in a department store looking for secret passages and finding a mirror/door with a keyhole to a security room overlooking the women's department- I keep hoping Nancy can tell me why I flinch when I'm touched and why I don't like to visit the country house anymore, but this isn't The Secret of the Old Clock or The Hidden Staircase and she can't give me an answer that won't hurt he

That first October, after I moved to Wales for my master's program, I turned 22. In Numerology 22 is a master number. I was tickled by the coincidence and figured that Wales would be an interesting experience, to say the least. This last weekend I turned 24. A solid two years later and I feel like a very different woman. As I've told everyone, I actually feel 24 years old. On practically every birthday before I never felt my age. I would always say, "Wow. I feel so much younger than ____!" Or "Man, I'm way older than ____." This year, for whatever reason, my age is perfect. My birthday was everything I needed it to be. I hadn't had a legitimate birthday party, complete with cake and singing, since I was in elementary school. Now I remember why kids get so excited. This week I've been thinking a lot about where my life is headed. As I truck along I begin to understand that there are some things we simply can't control. So many things are ou

After I moved to Wales for graduate school, and it was clear that (for one reason or another) my mind and body were beginning to unravel at an alarming rate, my parents sent me a book called Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters by Courtney E. Martin . It was the first time I picked up a non-fiction book and found myself on every single page. After reading for only a few minutes I was cracked open and bleeding on the carpet. Never had I encountered such a candid discussion about the women of my generation and the struggle we have with our bodies. I would be giving myself very little credit if I blamed all my struggles on the state of my body or how I perceive it, but only someone who has suffered eating disorders, depression, or suicidal tendencies/ ideation can understand that when you wage a battle within yourself, the most profound victim is usually your body. Anna Quindlen , a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and author, wrote in her 2005 book Being Perfect, "Someday, sometim

give me an inch and I’ll give you a mile make room for me among the boxes and toys, and behind the velvet ropes of your life give me a patch of earth in which to grow my flowers, even though roses aren’t your favorite hand me the cistern of water, even if you never want a drink I’m asking you to not make this about you- to move over and invite me to stay to realize that in all the space of your life what I want doesn't take up much room at all

the three day grey finally broke in the sky stubborn sunlight defiantly lights the ground more concerned with my open coffee cup than mirrors and combs my skin feels Old Man Winter winding his way in the street sneaking glances through the autumn leaves- it's only a matter of time before Chicago lets him back in, no matter how poorly he treats us- just now October and one layer isn't enough hoping that a spot in the sun might find me on my way to work a leaf falls into my coffee cup but smiling because with one big swallow it's sliding down my throat with scratching persistence- having never swallowed a season before the possibilities were exciting-

I never thought that on a rainy spring day I would be in a studio in downtown Chicago with a cute little assistant shyly rubbing bronzer into my legs. He was so shy, in fact, that he couldn't continue up to my thighs. (A fact made obvious later when my skirt hiked up and the skin was pale enough to blind Helen Keller.) Nor did I think that I'd have an exuberant stylist (see below) with his hands up said skirt, and down my shirt as well. ("Don't worry honey, this means nothing to me.") Ah, it's a good life I discovered just a scant few months ago. My friend, plus-size model Teslyn Butler , who I met at a commercial shoot, recommended me to a local designer named Niehla Ollie who was in dire straights for a Caucasian, curvy model. After sending a few snapshots through email, Niehla agreed to use me for a small photo shoot. I was folded into an enthusiastic embrace in her apartment and immediately put into make-up while I learned the basic ins-and-outs of plus

Student of mine to security guard: "I'm looking for Ms. Butler. She's the English tutor?" Security guard to my student: "Oh! You mean that tall, white girl? She's up by the library." *Bless you Chicago*

Wanting a poet to write something about you is equivalent to desperately seeking a photographer to capture "the real you." To see you as something elusive and worth capturing. It's easy to follow someone about who has the right amount of artistic temperament to attract you, but enough of the here and now to realize they're being saught. It's a dangerous game. Always in pursuit of the artist, or the muse. It's easy to love the way a poet sees the world. I love several of them. You become addicted to their words. It lifts you up, takes you away, you see the ordinary in a hyper-focused, soft- lens . None of it's real. I haven't written poetry for months. I think I've become a part of the terrible *cliche* of only writing when I'm depressed. Or maybe I become depressed when I stop writing. Chicken, egg, brain chemicals. I write when there is a need. Unfortunately, as much as my professors in Wales tried to beat it out of me (bless you Stevie!

Sometimes I want to fuck your friend because his vulnerability is intoxicating To him I am something special I could be someone else; someone new and shiny I only think this because he looks for a lost thing in me- He won't find it here I am caught in spider webs with nowhere to go and nothing to do but hang by the black-widow threads Like when you crush the bloom in your hand, only to wonder why you did when the petals hit the ground I won't fuck your friend but somedays the desire to destroy everything good will not abate lightly Sometimes fucking-up or fucking around are the only options left to believe in, even though they never work I could pretend that he would somehow save me I wish desperately that it could be so simple

I am idle and angry. Sad too, but not passively so. I am large. My universe should be as large, with loud colors and bright sounds. I am sorry that you must deal with the pieces that do not fit. It makes no sense that my universe feels soft and fragile. Lived so much, for so long. Lived so loud and so vibrantly, to feel delicate. My mistakes are never quietly made. I have used my friend's patience so harshly and desperately, but always with the quiet, sweet plea in my eyes, "Love me anyway." I do not drink enough anymore and really wish I did. Bottoms of pints, bottoms of bottles, bottoms up in the air and too many bodies to remember. I hate being a pain in your ass. Never again as it should be, but what it is , but never really good with that either. Bless all those loud, obnoxious- help me I'm drowning help me I'm lost help me, hold my hand, make love to me and call me pretty make it better because I can't make it better because I don'

This house is dreary. The floorboards are dried and squeak underfoot. If the sun doesn't shine in there is no light here. Even when there is sunlight the shadows are deep and long in the hallways. So many unused lanterns with boxes of tea-light candles collecting dust. If it weren't for the voices this house would be empty. I see outlines in the dark, so I know I'm not alone. Now I know why you craved the silence. The graveyard isn't completely abandoned despite what the rumors say. The paths are well-worn, even if the tombstones are overturned and broken. It feels untouched here, except for the plastic purple flowers. Every spare inch of land is covered in graves and weeds. If it weren't for the flowers this place would be empty. I see them scattered on the ground, so I know someone cares. Now I know why you craved the silence. This body is tired, though the lungs breathe and the heart beats. I need the sun to shine over my ever-dar