Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Read My Lips

You should read my body like you might read a book of poetry: slowly and occasionally out loud. My skin is no novel and does not have a beginning or an end. Feel free to start where ever you like and if a particular passage intrigues you, by all means reread it again and again.

Trace the words across my skin with your fingertips and tongue and lips. You may need to pause on the paragraph between my thighs. Those few lines are complicated and full of words you've never used before and some you've never even heard. You will learn something from my body, if you take the time to study it thoroughly.

I will make sure to properly punctuate my parts so you do not stumble over the sentences. I've tattooed a comma behind my ear to let you know this is where you pause. I have dotted my eyes with exclamation points so when my lids fall in ecstasy you will see what you have done to me. On either side of my lips are parenthesis to denote that what you find between is going to be sometimes unrelated and often obscene.

Read my body to yourself as you fall asleep. Learn the braille of my fingers and hips so that when you finally fade the last words on your lips are bits of me. I will wake you in the morning with a line that is perfect in its simplicity. Like a book you just can't put down, you will pick me up again and start to read.

Learn my body until you remember it completely. You should be able to open me up to the exact page you need. When my binding is worn to hold a muscle memory, choose a new poem and restart the mastery. My body, like language can not be overused. It will mature and change, but never really be complete. There will always be an underlying theme, something you assign to the words spread over me.

Remember I was not written for you specifically. So what you get from me, is dependent on how well you read.

Friday, July 8, 2011

I'll be waiting for your apology.

I am not going to cover my skin so that you feel more comfortable. I am going to hug it. I am going to wrap it in satin and spandex. I will wear something that molds to me like it has been painted on. I am sexy naked and I am sexy clothed. I am not going to justify taking my own photo with a weak "I felt pretty today." I feel pretty most days. I feel fucking hot as hell most days. And on the days when I wake up and can't seem to get comfortable inside my traitorous wardrobe, I rebel against it. I decide that today is naked Wednesday and no clothes will touch my strong, protective skin. So no, I am not going to buy your swim skirt. So that if you accidentally glance at me, you don't have to see my thick thighs slide together suggestively. I will not wear sleeves in the dead heat so you don't have to see my stretch marked flesh. It's beautiful. Like lace and love and pink newness all wrapped around the strength of my muscles. I am not going to talk about what a self respecting fat girl would wear. Because when I used those words I did not respect my self, my body. I was apologizing for my size, for my sex, for everything about me. I was sorry that I was not your ideal of beauty and needed you to forgive me. Then I realized that most of you did not blame me for my own shape. I loved my flesh and bone and skin and that made you love me. So fuck those of you who are disgusted by me. I am not sorry. I am not sorry that I can look at my reflection and smile at what I see. I am not sorry that when I put on my new red-hot hot-pants, not a single moment of insecurity hits me. I am not sorry when I am dripping with sweat from a night spent moving to a rhythm that pulls me. I am sorry that you are not happy. It hurts to see you, half my size and hating every solid piece of you. It angers me to hear you say that you are too fat for your skin to be showing because, when you say it about you, you are saying it about me. I am sorry that I have to lose you as a friend because your insecurities keep hurting. I decided once upon a time that I loved me. It was an easy choice to only feel good about the body that keeps my soul alive, and I am not fucking sorry.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Journal of Sorts.

Dear Yesterday

I needed a place to get things off my chest.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Hey Dude, Get Off Of My Lawn

I wish I were writing more. I wish I were painting more and creating more and socializing more. I have been nursing this feeling like I want to sell all my things, pack up my husband and my cats and move to the city. Any city, anywhere. I just need a little culture, a little community.

Do you live in the suburbs? Do they stifle your soul like they do mine? Its an entire landscape created under the premise of a community and yet there is not a single sense of it.

My neighbors, despite being 50 feet away, never come knock on my door to say hello. There have been no bar-be-ques or block parties. The other people on my street rarely even wave when I walk by.

In the country, your neighbors are few and far between and yet you all some how end up meeting each other. Perhaps it is because your mutual seclusion means that in an emergency you need to know who you can turn to. In the city people are thrust together by everything. They take the same train to work and end up chatting, they sit on the front stoop on a hot day and introduce themselves, they both go the the same bakery around the corner for Sunday morning donuts.

The suburbs do not encourage that kind of community. No one needs to meet a neighbor because in the case of an emergency the rescue squad is so close. How can you make contact when you never leave the bubble of your front lawn without a car around you.

Lawns in the suburbs are little fortresses of anonymity. You may see a neighbor from your window mowing their lawn or washing their car, but to walk over and start a conversation would be awkward and intrusive.

Moving to the suburbs was like my first year away at school. There were thousands of people all around me and yet I was completely alone. Thankfully in school I was forced into friendships and had myriad choices of activities, groups, and events to explore. There was a never ending supply of people that I had something in common with, something that created a kind of connection. Its true that the majority of those connections broke once we all graduated, but I made enough strong bonds to come out feeling fulfilled.

There is no such light at the end of the tunnel in this little subdivision. No eventual friendships I know I will build. My only hope is I find another person who hates the suburbs as much as I do and we encourage each other to escape.

Friday, March 11, 2011

1.5 Cats

I may think that if I rearrange the same things they might change me
So I try to organize and colorize the stacks and stuff around me
The books are all coded, whites and blacks and blues and greens
To break it and make it ok, the spots of colors go in between
So the cherry, strawberry candlestick sits in just the space
Where it might make the the yolky yellow and creamy green seem
better
And I will be better, and I will be happy, and I will focus and be a success

Instead of sitting here and being less than I am supposed to be.
I know I already said, how I was too far from the edge and I needed to break free

So this is less about me and more about things
Things that can me handled and controled and put in their place.
Things, in their cubbys and caddys and drawers and displays
They show I am good and special and interesting, that I have such taste

Conversation pieces, if there were voices to conversate this place
But there arent, only things and 1.5 cats and a husband I love but
Thats it.

I have the best wine glasses and shot glasses and my homemade bar
but the bottles sit dusty because you arent supposed to drink alone
So I dust and I align and I make up my mind that this time tomorrow I wont be

I think maybe if all my things are where they are supposed to be
Then I will finally settle into whats supposed to be me
That if the closet is in order and the laundry is clean
All the beautiful things in my mind will, by way of my hands, leave me
I will create a magnificant thing, that will amaze and allure and live
A thing that people will see and be drawn to keep and treasure always
To put on the shelves between the blue and the green
So I won't just be going to waste.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Stuck in a Rut

I am a wagon wheel, on a dirt road, after a hard rain, carrying a heavy load.
I am a hand on the keys, hesitating, unable to even flinch.
I am the word rewritten again and again, line after line scratched out to nothing, ready to become something.
I am a brick wall, between a canvas and a brush, between a needle and a cloth, between these words and my pen.
I am impenetrable, immovable, inexorable.
I am one room away from the music, one day away from the sunshine, one meal away from the feast.
I am on the precipice of greatness, but I have stepped too far from the edge.
I am a statue, an effigy, a representation of what I should be, but I am stone still and waiting.
I am a wagon wheel, sunken deep in the rut of my own struggling, trying everything to break free.