Some days I fantasize about peeling away my womanhood. I think about a delicate hold on the flesh that others deemed ‘She’. I dream of a firm tug, then euphoric release.
Strip lashes, brassieres, and misogynoir left behind on a bathroom floor.
The easy and graceful fall of Her and the emergence some Other Thing within me that has remained elusive, standoffish even as I beckon it forward to name it.
Some days, I indulge and delight in the Unknown and Unable to Be Known nestled deep in my being.
But only some days.
My pronouns are She/Her/Hers.
[a mantra, a promise, written for the angry]
I will take the Titans you worship, the monuments you’ve built, and tear them asunder. I will pull the False Gods you’ve created — money, power, violence,— down from this manufactured paradise.
I am made to stand and confess.
The church has all the answers.
I don’t pray enough or tithe or read my bible.
I haven’t been broken enough.
I haven’t been humbled before a Jealous and Benevolent God.
I have been brought to the brink by my hair and learned nothing but
anger and resentment.
I am a Stubborn Child, unwilling to heed the word of my Father.
My afflictions and pain are a test of my faith that I fail no matter
the number of second chances I’m given.
The hum of the organ agrees.
According to Them, I will continue to be
pressed and punished until
I bend to the Will of God
beneath the weight.
My suffering is purposeful.
Any weakness I show is punishable by way of the Holy Ghost Gaslight.
And the church says
Trigger warnings for assault, suicide, hospitalization, recovery.
It’s so weird how pain tattoos itself across our bodies and our minds. Aches slip right into the places that wear and tear have left cracks in our Selves. From trace amounts of grief whispering in the back of our minds to innumerable…
About the way I did not know what the shackle meant until boys and men had already tried to break the iron round an ankle too delicate to understand.
This is a poem about laying my body down on many fine lines. About the stories of the first bloody night…
I used to chain eat blue.
I was ecstatic when my tongue turned and my lips were stained and sticky from the candies I knew were fleeting.
Simple bits of blue I snuck between chastisement from my mother.
I would go to the sea
And laugh so openly that
I swallowed down the salty blue
And choked on the salt and brine
Still ecstatic to have blue pass my lips
To taste blue and have it be a part of me
I thought I knew and had tasted every blue
I tasted Blue and You
We sat on a bench and watched the sea
We fought for blue candy
Blue Cotton Candy, sticky fingers
Lips and tongues and teeth stained blue
Grinning at each other and forgetting
Then you kissed me or I kissed you
And I discovered a whole New Blue