Lisbeth Lavigne

I Believe I Am All Wrong for This Place

Lisbeth Lavigne is a pseudonym for a cardiothoracic surgeon born and raised in Michigan and writing for the past 25 years.

I Believe I Am All Wrong for This Place

I believe I am all wrong for this place
I have applied my war paint,
Perfected the wear of my dress.
I settle here emotionally naked at the bar,
Sans reading and writing accoutrements.

The man near me notices no presence of my being.
Hunkered in his blue electric world,
As they have all become.
I remain a dim smudge in a nearby realm.
No virility to covet my voluptuous breasts, seductive hips.

Solitary amongst the others,
My loneliness is sufferable.
Am I always meant to be as such?
No shining knight saving me from dreadful existence.
No declarations of love.

Where have I been mistaken?
Struggling for identity,
Have I become too independent?
I have lingered in this body far too long,
Always raped and abandoned.

The man has another woman approaching.
She is not so beautiful as I imagined.
Well endowed, soft laughter.
Exuberant smile, exuding confidence.
Characteristics making a woman worthy of love.

I carry intimidation, they say.
I carry unapproachability, they say.
I carry an unpolished beauty,
And I am disposable to they
Who see me solely as sexual desire.

How dare I fall in love.
Falling for the lies.
My heart broken repetitively,
Encased now in impenetrable stone.
Alas, understanding.

My body, they want only superficially.
They want only my sex.
They want only to rule.
Use my soul, crush my heart.
Itself protecting feigned emotion.

As the man of my dreams once asked,
“What is your dysfunction?”
Causing me pause and disappointment.
He too shall choose another,
Taking my heart and soul to its well-deserved grave.