Lisa Bledsoe
Ordinary Supermodel Badass

1.
I read I was a lesbian gothic orphan in space,
more than good with a sword. The necromancy
and ubiquitous skeletons are boring & bullshit
but I could absolutely kick your ass for you.
I have knives & knuckles in the pockets
of this godawful cape thing. Capes suck
for fighting but look boss, hide plenty.
I put on the mandated death's head makeup,
but wear a pair of contraband mirrored aviators,
my own small rebellion.

The queen-regnant told everyone I'd taken a vow
of silence for penance, evil bitch. But
I'm enjoying how people fade out of my way,
trying not to stare.

2.
I dreamt I was a supermodel, freakishly tall—
sleek black hair in a trendy bowl cut.
Bones I never used but left draped attractively
on lounges because that's my job. Everyone stares
and that's my job too.

Pay's good but it's boring as fuck, maddening
now and then to slump around some asshole's party
for hours, fending off the advances of his paunchy
asshole buddies. The aloof, bitchy thing isn't always
an act.

Today it's boring and not maddening—
a runway show, and I have my own lipsticks in
what might be a pocket of this godawful
thousand dollar cape. I replace the pale
nude they did in makeup with glossy black &
they'll have a fit when I get backstage again.
Small, satisfying rebellions.

3.
I wake up already merging onto the superhighway
of neurological fuckery. Assholes and idiots
travel at insane speeds, giving me the finger
as they pass. My hand and arm are shrieking & shaking,
my leg is in spasms. I press myself up with the
(so far) good hand, cradle the other to my chest.
I am ungodly slow and use boring swear words.

Every day I wear whatever I want: boot-cut jeans
and cheap tee-shirts, sometimes amusing or ironic.
I live on the most beautiful mountain on the planet—
High Writing Bitch in Charge. I keep my phone
in my pocket, for photographing wildflowers.
I don't use it much for calls out here, tending
bees, hiking.

I still fight. And smoke when I need to,
when the shakes take over.