She is standing in the rays of sun as they filter through the stirring canopy of trees. Secretive smile, both calming and reaffirming of how little in this world I truly understand.
I do not seek all-consuming love For I do not wish to be consumed To be consumed is predation And I am not a meal This definition of love
My Humanity, Our Humanity
I refuse to be ashamed of my humanity, exhausted with being told who I am supposed to be. Isolation became my shroud, a transitional space that crafted conversations as I sought clarity.
A letter to my young self
This is a letter to my young self & all persons who feel the oppressive weight of living under cultural and patriarchal restraint. Especially for those journeys that have been made more arduous due to intersectionality and for those who seek to heal from experienced traumas. It can feel like a lonely road travelled when our song feels dissonant to those around us. When individuality that follows the social norm is what is expected of us. When we are asked to be everything and expected to question none of it. When we keep space with those that do not keep space for us. When we find ourselves seeking other’s approval over our own. When we stop being crafters of our own story, stray from our path, and allow others to dance us along on marionetted strings. When we continue to witness the collective pain of marginalizing policies.
Two Dinner Parties
We are at a dinner party. The first time we have gone out since viewing that positive result on a pregnancy test. After-dinner coffee steams before us. The dinner is populated with his friends—jovial, shallow, and predictable. Jason, the louder of the group, is telling a tale of his latest conquest. A blonde with the requisite “big tits and legs that go on for days,” whose key skill is prostate play and letting him cum in her mouth. I take a sip of my coffee the color of desert fatigues due to the higher ratio of milk, and taste warm earth with cherry notes as I silently observe Jason’s anecdote. The man seated beside me is named Clint. He fathered the growing seed inside me, and sitting on the edge of his seat laps up these details as a lion licks their lips watching the caribou frolic on the savannah. Jason goes on to divulge “the blonde with the big tits” singular drawback being her request for the designation of girlfriend and the presumed monogamy that title entails. Jason laughs and preens while he basks in his commentary slaps on the back, “She can’t get enough of me, man.”
Visceral Chocolate Baby
I am still scrubbing you off the walls of that room, and my mind. The iron-rich stains have seeped so deep that I fear there will always be a piece of you that remains. I cannot decide if that’s comforting or haunting. Not many would choose to live in a home with so many phantoms from the past, and yet I do. Like a shroud I have worn them all these years, and I fear I am beginning to show the signs of their decay. I fall asleep to the sound of your whispers, lilting over the nightscape, and coaxing swirling dreams of matches and gasoline. I pace the desolate structures of my mind, the past so intertwined with the present, the line of demarcation indistinguishable. It’s been days since I left the house, or has that merged to weeks? I lay in bed, staring at the wall shared to your room. At times, it looks as though it is breathing, spurred to life with your DNA deposits. The sun’s path my only orientation to time. Sleep now rarely comes, and only in chaotic spurts that are more disturbing than restful.
Leda startles awake in pugilist form, tangled with sweat-soaked sheets that have clawed a tight grasp on her torso. She falls to the floor, her head making sharp contact with the bedside table. Grunting, stream of consciousness expletives rolling out on a hard exhale, as she tries to loosen the sheet’s cloying hold made more arduous by the bloated cotton fibers and the sweat still secreting from her pores. The tangy scent of adrenaline blended with fear waft from the wad of sour sheets as she slowly extricates herself. It’s a little past three in the morning. The moon hangs low in the sky, it’s ripened state casting elongated shadows on and around her body. Leda remains on her back while the rapid drumming of her heart slows as the epinephrine vapors of last night’s dream dissipate. Her eyes trace the length of shadows as they writhe on the ceiling to the sway of the soft breeze outside the barred window. The silence once longed for when the world was bustling and alive, now like a cavernous yawn that consumes, should you succumb to its stark whispers. Leda stares at the dead ceiling fan, now an appointed dust collector of yore since the sound of generators attract danger, willing the sheen of sweat to evaporate amid the stale air. As her body finally begins to cool, the dark void creeps in, leaving her shivering and restless. Leda works through her mind, sifting through the remains of the dream that awoke her.
Lavender is the color of my true love’s hair Love who I want, I shall dare I shall pursue my greatest thirst Which is to learn to love me first