Self Esteem, by Grace Alvino
Image courtesy Birmingham Museums Trust
I am beautiful and everybody loves me. I have strong natural nails
and I can take the subway without anybody giving me a hard time.
I can sing well unless my boyfriend is around and I put all the carts
back at Giant. A woman in Charlottesville told me I have gentlemanly
manners and I have kept my orchids alive for years. I have a great ass
and I have never been robbed and I rarely sweat through the armpits
of my t-shirts. I look exactly my age and I pick at my toenails
when I’m on the phone. I can do a backbend from a standing position
and my yoga instructor says I have high arches. I am in litigation
over a minor car accident and my dog growls at children when
they sing. I have been dumped three times on or around my birthday
and I sat in pee on the subway in April. The Express did not come
and I had to take the Local and I was not looking when I sat down.
I only cry when I am angry so I did not cry and I moved over into the dry
seat. I told the girl in scrubs who came on at Girard, Don’t sit there.
I sat in it. It’s pee. She was grateful and it was hot on my leg
and I thought, I am going to have to throw these pants out. I knew
I would not throw them out because they were my favorite pair
and they looked great on my ass. I thought about the time I sat next to a
T-bone someone had wedged between the seat and the window. This is not
so much worse than that, I decided. I texted everyone in my contacts
that I had sat in pee. I tried not to look at the sediment in the puddle
and focused on the walls that looked like plastic. On the red of the seats,
which also looked like plastic, and were the same color as some of
the paintings at the Barnes. I know more than anyone would think
about medieval paintings and I could feel the fabric pulling away
from my legs. It was soaked through and the pee was cooling
and I had not thought about what would happen when I stood up.
I did not have a jacket I could tie around my waist and I would have
to walk five blocks to my apartment. They were running the AC but
not high enough and my hair was sticking to my neck. I did not know if
I could smell the pee or if I had convinced myself that I could smell it.
I told myself to focus on the red, which I liked more than anything in
the world. It was so bright that it was almost orange and it was so beautiful
I did not know if I deserved it. I am not angry so I am not going
to cry and there are so many things I want to believe that I deserve.
I only sing in my apartment when I think my neighbors are gone and
I have never stolen anything, even at self checkout. I have only ever
had two bills sent to collections and I always hold the door for the people
behind me, even men. There are so many things I do to try to be good
and if I am good then it should protect me. I do not want anything to be
able to undo me. I do not want to love anything more than I love myself.
Grace Alvino’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in MudRoom, Grist, The Ex-Puritan, The Hopkins Review, and more. She earned her PhD in English from the University of Virginia, and she lives in Philadelphia with her boyfriend and their dog and cat. You can follow her on Instagram @gray_cious.