If you’re a young white female like me, on the poverty line but still privileged, you start to realize there are some things you can control, but they are only self things.
So you put yourself out there and you keep getting kicked in the face. It’s tempting to close yourself off, to harden yourself and come prepared to the next emotional situation. But someone, somewhere, accepts you for exactly who you are.
And all that searching just brings you back to you. Only you can accept yourself the way you want to be accepted.
And I do. And when I do, sometimes other people catch on. And if they don’t, oh well, you can’t force love.
The oldest floorboards I have ever seen
in my life
were so sunken
and chunked with layers
that the separation of
2-by-4s was merely an
I imagine myself there so much
that its truth of spirit is
defined more by dreams than
and dust settles slowly
and the stagelights, so lonely,
seem to dance with the dust
(the small specks of ancient freedom).
Sometimes the heavy, velvet-laden housedrapes
with sun-streams –
the kind you can stare at
for hours -
And though it never bores
those little beams are not quite strong enough
to warm beneath the surface
of your impervious skin.
– used by the small boy and the jazz teacher –
stood lonely in a secret box
covered in wood scraps
and broken colored lenses.
I longed to take it out!
a microphone and just
voice not shaking,
dark chairs before me,
my soul shared unashamed.
But if I sing for you,
no dust will dance in warming
The floorboards will not seem charming
in their age
and everything within my soul will be yours,
even if you do not want it.
I am not brave,
my heart is pounding
my mouth is dry
my skin grimy
God, if I believed in you,
I would pray and place my knees at the foot of the edge of
but mostly I am alone
and what I am not proud of
will haunt me until I learn how to exhale.
but PLOT TWIST: I’m the player.
in the chaos and sweaty, stumbling moments at 3 am,
you’ve found a way to calm me
and yet you’ve done so only with some fixed knowledge of my person.
I am consistent in my fear;
stoic and proud to bear my scars.
I bear them to you,
to parents and parents of parents,
but I am nothing without these.
I am no story, no small margin of code error, no mystic replications of your tantric sex dreams.
Touch not my line of moles, my row of eyes, my secret lines of re-situated flesh.
your eyes only speak devilish truths and spinning falsifications.
Eat my pussy, indeed.