These Cells Are Passages

I don't want to be a good girl. I want to be a great woman.
I don't want to be compared--
thinner than so-and-so;
dimmer than what's-her-name;
careful,
like a mother holding her child;
strong,
like what's-his-face's daughter:
she's someone's
daughter, someone's
future wife.
I am someone
now.
Can they see me now? Can they be proud of me now?
I want to be a template
but more than a muse.
                            but more.

Most beauty is hidden, she said,
her lips plush, but I tell her my body
deserves more than metaphor, and yet I have
trouble doing it justice. I use these hands to shape
dough or clay or minds, hopefully,
but my own brain does the harder work,
translating my ___ thoughts into ___ language
to come out of my ____ mouth. There is no justice here,
because I am a sloppy human being. I struggle being.
Plans leave tiny marks, loose eye lashes
on my cheek. To call them wishes would be a mistake.
I'm afraid I'm not that optimistic.
Stray _____ thoughts.
I'm not selfish when I write;
I'm selfish when I don't write,
when I don't translate
my ____ thoughts into ___ language.
The symmetry is absent.
The symmetry is a wish.
But I am a sloppy human being,
so under piles of papers and rubber bands and receipts,
under this rubble,
must be beauty.
It must be somewhere.