The Days I Know I’m Sad
What I wouldn’t give to clear the cobwebs
for what good has
being
Aware
of the
spider’s
string
been to the fly held fast in its grip?
SHE/HER/HERS
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.
Hero/Villain
I am neither hero nor villain. I am neither flaw, nor perfection. The hero I make myself out to be when I run from the ways I’ve hurt people, has come to lay herself at the sacrificial altar. She offers obsession, resentment, and judgement to the fire of the funeral pyre.
The irredeemable villain I thought I was when I split my pain into pieces and gifted them to the unsuspecting, is performing the eulogy. A mournful reminder that we are yet human, that we hurt and are hurt. That I am whole no matter what fragments, worn from my battles, may have splintered and drawn blood from those around me. That though no apologies can be offered, the edges of me can be sculpted and sanded into better.
And when the sermon is finished, the villain offers herself to the fire of atonement as well.
Healing burns through flesh left tender by emotion. By weight.
From the death of dichotomy, comes release.
I am the latchkey
I am a bandaid on the crack of a sidewalk
I am the stutter in an improv show
I am the uncertainty of I…Um…uh…
I am the “salt to taste” instructions on a boxed meal you’ve already thrown away
I am the unknown and the unlikely
I am a currently nameless writer born of the “we are sorry to inform you” generation
I am frustration, I am entitlement
I am the hard earned trophies gathering dust in my fathers office
I am the lost, the angry
I am a “no matter what” longing to be “look ma, I made it”
I am a “too much”
Being told “not enough”
When I long to be simply “I”
The best part of my day
is the moment I am lucky enough
to open my eyes
and remember that
I am a significant speck.
I have truly never been told I am beautiful
or lovely
without being told just how I provide value.
They partake of my heart,
water their fields with my blood and tears.
Build places of safety from my bones.
Create homes within all I provide.
And I, longing to be loved, aching for beauty,
Allow.
Hi dolls, something exciting is happening. Gonna be on a (digital) panel for the Association of Writers and Writing Programs talking about this blog and all of you who follow me and how you all gave me the courage to become a professional writer! All with other amazing people who also turned their blogs into pro careers!
The event won’t be happening until March and you’ll need tickets but I’ll post pricing if anyone is interested.
New work on my medium. Mind the trigger warnings.
The Body Remembers.
Congrats, @marsincharge! 🎉
Thank you! I wouldn’t be a writer if it weren’t for the time spent here :D