How Much Emphasis We Put On The Wrapping Paper Of Our Souls

I am noticing how different people treat me
after I return from the woods
with a sunburnt face
blonde hair wild like the wind
dirt under my nails
black long johns covered in the dirt from the earth
I notice the way the woman at the posh restaurant I enter looks me up and down
the
what is she doing here
in her eyes
the disdain in the older ladies eyes
as I walk in with jean shorts torn
brown legs from the sun
hairy and alive

I am often prized on my appearance
my blonde tiger main flowing over my shoulders
my black ray bans and hip hats
stepping out of my white jeep
brown combat boots
as I step onto the ground

My appearance is never perfect but it is applauded

The last month it is strange to be the same
yet collect a different reaction

How much emphasis we put on the wrapping paper of our souls

And how little we look at what is inside

A piece of me wishes to shove the women who looks at me with disdains nose in her Chardonnay as I point to my brand new Jeep Wrangler outside
tell her I-make-six-digits
eat your fucking soup
so she may remove the stares from my back

To lean gently over to the server
who comes to me last
guessing I won’t have the folded wallet the size of her other guests
tell her she’s a fool

I guess then I’d be caring as much as they do
so I must do away with it and know that my insides shine just as bright.

Janne Robinson is a poet and author of
This Is For The Women Who Don’t Give A Fuck.
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