Regarding Intimacy

My Body, The Currency

As a child,

My first love whispered to me,

You are not enough

Over and over and over,

The thought struck into my bones,

Hollowing each one in passing,

If your own flesh does not choose you,

Who would?

It was my first lesson in being small.

In asking for nothing, 

In melting into the mold,

The hot plastic,

As it’s shaped into a child’s toy,

It was the first time I realized I do not deserve to ask for space,

That suffocation was my right,

And air was for others.

As I grew,

 Every man’s touch reaffirmed my first lesson,

Each graze of their fingertips taking a pieces of my skin as if it was never mine to begin with,

A thing to be given,

My occupation: existence for the pleasure of others,

The hollowing of my soul,

Falling in line with my bones. 

My own whittling began as I learned starvation,

How closely it mimicked the sensation I had accepted as my destiny.

How I could shrink my physical being to match the nothingness that lied underneath,

A coming home to the self I had created.

Rejoicing,

 In finally having control over my own torture,

I turned to exploitation from others only when I started to feel again,

My emotions screaming underneath, threatening to send me, retching, to my knees,

The donating of my body in exchange for a reminder my worth,

A reminder that I had no worth,

Using their weakness to mask my own,

Allowing their hands to take back ownership of my being,

A shock sent through my soul,

Culminating in silence.

The fight stilled within me,

I find comfort in the familiar numbness.

(Darkness)

The Ways I Give Myself to Others

I am 

Desperately afraid 

You will think 

Loving me was a mistake 

You pluck each muscle at the base of my throat as you lightly trace the opening

Lacing the strings carefully as to not cause alarm

I imagine watching a lobster lounge, finding comfort in the warming water,

A space reminiscent of home,

The whale as he swallows the fish whole.

Your words swirl in my ears as cotton candy fills my mind

The sugar disintegrating the matter

The flies taking their time finishing the carcass

I tug at the hem of your shirt as the suffocation begins

I would ask for air but I can’t seem to find the words,

I can’t seem to find a thought other than you arms around my chest,

 and the syrup that drips from each eye,

And your body as it’s made for mine,

In practice.

I suck the blood from your fingertips in a desperate search for nourishment as my knees begin to buckle and the weight begins to crush.

Still, I crave for more,

Closer, I manage to rasp as you tie the bow upon my tongue 

The silk thick like cotton upon my lips.

I run my fingernails upon your arm,

Digging out your skin as my prize,

Relishing the taste of your name intertwined with mine one last time

As the coroner finds the motive,

A man afraid to love

A women afraid to live without

A death by means of sacrifice 

Ceasing

It meant nothing

I was numb

I only wanted to be intertwined with you

To give myself to you fully,

To become you,

Weaving every fiber of our being into one.

But my self and my body have been two separate entities for so long,

I can only give one and not the other.

And to give myself to you, 

While my hatred runs so deeply and was learned so easily,

Would be asking you to hate me too.

Your touch, invariably, evoking screams from my depths,

 Echoed,

Bouncing throughout the space where my thoughts should live.

How much would I donate to the cause of owning my own body?

Having accepted my unworthiness as a foundational belief years ago,

Fear strokes to me to sleep with lullabies, slowly repeating:

You would be nothing without your body

I can’t help but wager the exact time it will take for you to share my sentiment,

To try, and to fail, to remember my existence without the repugnance.

And once I disgust you too,

Especially knowing my only worth comes from the act of pleasing others,

What is my purpose?

Why am I still here?

And so forth, and so on.

From Pablo Neruda XVII

“I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,   

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:   

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries   

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,   

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose   

from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,   

I love you directly without problems or pride:

I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,   

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,   

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.”

And Womanhood

Dating

Please do not compliment me for my body,

For that of which I am not proud of,

Not in the way you celebrate it at least

I tell of you of my writing, and my accomplishments

Of the way I love others and have learned to love myself,

And you say congratulations on your tits

We discuss my views on religion,

How I understand the human need to grasp for understanding,

To find comfort in an explanation,

That I hope others find peace in whichever way they choose to believe, 

And you ask me, “how did you get so blessed to have an ass too?”

I speak on vulnerability,

On how physical intimacy is akin to terror,

An unlacing of my being, leaving my soul to lie barren on the table, unprotected.

That there is no off switch for emotional association within me anymore,

We lightly touch on what other remnants lay mixed within the ashes,

And you ask me what I think the circumference of your penis is.

We are not the same.

And I don’t fault you for your lacking,

But I have no desire to be a part of it.

I feel no need to try and help make you whole,

Not that you are asking,

Not that you don’t already think of yourself as the most whole person on this planet.

But I do pity you,

For not understanding that the meaning lies within the open spaces,

The acknowledgement of the sections we’ve lost, the areas we’ve closed off, being the most precious offering of beginnings. 

So, I am proud of my body,

In the way she carries me each day,

In her strength,

In her relentlessness in message sending and soul speaking,

I am proud of the role she plays in helping me love others,

For her capacity to withstand each storm whether the blows come from outside or within.

But, I am not proud of her because I won the prize of being attractive for you, to you.

I am not proud to be spoken of so highly because you’ve decided that I was good enough,

That the evidence has been submitted and the jury actually didn’t even have to get to all that “other stuff” because the proportions of my waist to my hips passed the test.

You are not listening to me,

And I do not want your lust without your admiration for each part of me held equally.

I am not a doll for your playing. 

Please leave your casual at the door 

Your thinly veiled attempt to ask me to give my body away on a volunteer basis

To be yours for the taking with none of the work 

Would you sit amongst the produce at the market and finish the carton of strawberries 

Or excuse a skipped bill at a steakhouse on the basis of causality? 

Why then, do you feel as if you deserve my body for free

Without the currency of vulnerability 

With what right do you ask me to set my needs aside 

To donate my time to the cause of your desires 

I would rather think more highly of my trust 

To treat my council with the respect they deserve

I am content as my own lover 

Your space is meant to challenge, grow, complement, connect,

Not to demand I acquiesce 

S, Like the Curve of Her Body

The first time I held her in my arms

The way I felt whole for the first time,

Mirrored

Your curves matching mine as we fit together effortlessly,

My hands sliding across your body as my own,

The only maker of my own undoing

Playfulness as my fingers practice their own instrument,

Bending the rules softly into a curve

Nourished, as my tongue traces the familiar grooves of your peak

Filled, as I scoop the power from your hips

There is a fullness to a Woman no other can recreate

The power of a life giver

The ache of a caregiver

I drip into your soul as you undo my flesh

Taking apart my own skin as only one who shares it could

Your touch echoes long past your fingertips graze my skin

Each groove painted in your wake.

My body yearns to be filled

Opening towards you at the thought

I trace an S lightly across my forearm

I taste your breath deep within my throat

I hear the depths left in the wake of own undoing this morning

I cherish

The wonder of being loved by a woman

The awe of being loved by yourself 

I am intoxicated by my own being

I am fascinated by those of my own kind

Questions to Ask on the First Date

I want to be loved for my darkness even more so than for my light.

I want my heaviness to pour out of me into the arms of my lover without apprehension,

Not for it is their weight to carry,

But for their understanding to be had.

So that we may be truly intertwined,

So that they may know the depths and caverns which I once feared.

So they can trace the fingerprints on the parts of me that survived my own reckoning, 

The parts marked worthy in the massacre,

To know the layer in which love must exist lies this world and the next,

I do not want to share my light with others until I deem them worthy of my darkness,

Here are my fears on a silver platter,

Delicately placed with love,

Do you think they will nourish your soul as they have mine?

Are you willing to try?

I want you to see me in my savage state,

Raw in being,

Stripped down to the fetal core

I am asking for sweetness, for gentleness, for understanding,

Not without my (our) complexities

Hardship, sadness, pain, fear, terror,

But because of them.

I want so deeply to open, 

Not to the world completely,

But to you. 

To bloom,

To feel (earned) trust pulsing through our shared heartbeat and to unravel at the touch of your fingertips,

At the touch of your words on my skin, I want my soul to erupt into flames equal to those fueled by the knowing of my self,

I want you to bite into an onion as if it were the orange we shared last Tuesday and savor the tears as they fall from my face

I want you to swim in my darkness, splashing the darkness onto the shore,

The barrier where I end and you begin

The grains of our being becoming one within the sand.

I want to nail my hands onto the cross and offer crucification without question of my safety,

The knowing that I will never be left to perish when I’m in your arms

I want to stand on the edge, teetering, with laughter, as your hands dig firmly into my hips,

Their impression lasting long after the release.

There is no me without my darkness

There is no us without your understanding

Undress me

Strip me bare

Hold my soul in your hands

Forget every light you’ve ever seen in me

Cherish the mess

Are you able?

Are you willing?

Will you shave your teeth to adequately rip into the dark meat?

Does your strength allow you to?

And when you have finished ravaging the feast that is my reckoning,

Shall I, now, be seated for your show?

This World was Not Built for Us

I was born into this world being told I was not enough,

Each step I took half a length behind my counterparts,

I was told to be good and be pretty,

Be kind and be small,

I was told the world suffers sin because of my mother’s mother,

That the gift of creating new life is a curse, not a miracle

A burden, I carry because Eve tempted Adam,

And not that Adam was weak, not that he took equal part,

But that Eve, solely by her existence, created sin in a man’s perfect world,

I carried that knowing and gave my body away to every man who asked, or didn’t,

To every man that took back his right- my fault.

I grew up as an object, not a self.

Embarrassed by the way my lungs rose and fell,

Guilt rushing through my blood with each heart beat,

Closing my throat a little at a time.

Until I was no more than a china doll,

Grinning as I imagined smashing my glass body into the ground,

Over and over and over,

Rejoicing in the idea of my brain shattering upon impact,

Yearning to rip my limbs apart, to tear my body into shreds piece by piece, 

So it could no longer be yours for the taking,

Would smashing my car against a wall at three hundred miles per hour be sufficient to replicate the rage I feel inside?

Swallowed so deeply I cannot imagine its release without my own destruction.

Do you know what it feels like to be a woman in this world?

How suffocating it is? How invalidating it is?

Of course, I am emotional when I try to tell you,

You cannot imagine the storms I have inside me,

I spent so long with an aversion to the flame with the fear that I would burn the whole damn place down in my own release.

I am afraid of my own power, you should be too.

It’s a Man’s World

This week, I have been reflecting on straight, white males. What it must be like for them to walk through this world. To live in a society governed completely by the ideals of your own kind, a culture that was built on the foundational belief that there is no other above a white man. A culture designed to remind them of their worthiness around every corner.

I do not fault them entirely because they did not ask to be born into this world this way. I do not hold resentment for each individual man for how he reaps the benefits day in and day out, but, I do fault those white men who do not acknowledged the privilege they have been given. Who, cannot understand that though they did not choose this, it is still their responsibility to help rectify it. I am in awe of their ignorance. Or, maybe awe really isn’t the right word. I am bewildered? Shocked? Trying to fathom how different their experiences are? Looking up from the trenches (and I am a white female so I acknowledge I am only a few trenches below, with endless layers stretching below me), but looking up from the trenches, where we all push against each other to fight for equality, to give ourselves the leg up, where I am forced to use my breath to demand I am a self not an object, I can’t help but feel we have been fucking bamboozled.

 How is it not an obvious, widely accepted notion that this ideology must change? How does our government still reflect the idolization of a white male? How is every person in the board room, at the top, every decision maker still a white male? How is every letter addressed from a couple Mr. And Mrs. Adam Smith? Why, when my mother makes a reservation is it put in my father’s name? Why does the insurance company assume that the husband holds the policy? Why are my rights still a topic of conversation?* How does no one notice? And I know that is me being a little unfair, people have noticed, but nothing has changed. And then there is the, “well, somethings have changed,” the, “now this percentage of CEOs are female,” or “there are more women in the government now than ever before,” but please stop fucking asking me to be okay with the scraps. Please stop painting me as ungrateful as you hand me the bone licked clean, meat hanging from your teeth. I will not be satiated by the starvation you forced upon the generations before me. And while I honestly believe yes, women should rule the entire world. They should occupy every seat of power and decision making, every law maker and business owner, (I believe the world would run more peacefully, more efficiently, more kindly, people would be more accepting, and vulnerability used as strength more commonplace,) all we are asking for equality. And I am just at a loss as to why that is such a hard concept to grasp. Which brings me back to exploring what it is to experience this world as a white man. 

To the idea that being born a white man creates a lack of reckonings that every other demographic is forced to undergo as a part of this society. A series of reckonings that force a shift of perspective, that build strength within sense of self, empathy for the experience of others, an understanding of what it means to be told “no.” And because white men live in a world that bends to their needs, it creates a fragility within the demographic. It creates an intense fear when there is someone bold enough to threaten what they have decided is their God given right. It results in retaliation, harshness, an inability to understand a situation as a whole, to think logically through solutions. It is not only a disservice to society, but a disservice to the white man as well. Imagine how many artists, creators, writers, and performers we are missing out on as a culture because of the plush environment we create for the white male through our own sacrificial nature. Imagine the potential that lies untouched in each man left unbothered within his comfort zone. Every “yes”, a death of inspiration.

It is as infuriating as it is interesting. I am fighting day in and day out to be able to live within the space that lies between being a silly little girl or a body you want to fuck. I am heartbroken that we are unable to use emotion as a strength due to the fact that we live within a society that shuns the intersection of power and feeling. That allows no humanity in our definition of success. I’m desperate for a better future for myself, for my daughters, for any person of color, any person within LGBTQ+, or for any demographic that is forced to lie on the outside of this society. I want to believe so badly that it is possible and things can change and it won’t always be like this, but I am not hopeful. They are not listening to us, and I am so sick of being underestimated. 

* As a side note, don’t even get me started on women’s health and rights within healthcare decisions. Like genuinely C’mon. They’re not even trying to pretend they see women as human beings with this one. You want to talk about being so delusional that you believe you’re so special that you were given God given right to make decisions on a topic that has actually not one thing to do with you. That men are pretentious enough to believe that they should have any role in deciding whether or not I am able to be given birth control, or have an abortion, or any myriad of other topics. Did you know when you google what percentage of women’s health research is funded by the government the answer is 10.7%. While, when you search what percentage of men’s health research is funded by the government there is no clear answer because as a society men’s health is just healthcare. Women’s health has to be clarified as such because we are an exception, while men’s health, or simply healthcare, is the teet from which we are expected to thank for the drops left once each man’s stomach has been filled. I honestly don’t know sometimes how we wake up each morning and go to work and live our lives within a society where all these facts exist as truths. It is suffocating when you begin to really dive into it, and I know it is uncomfortable as we start to really examine all the inequalities, but you should feel angry. The discomfort is where we must live to receive the message anger is trying to tell us. The wrongness that is trying to be conveyed. We must throw ourselves out of the nest and roost within the areas that want to send us running. To look at the parts that scare us the most.

And Feeling

When I Say I Feel Things Differently I Think I Mean

Riding the waves

Falling off the rollercoaster

Trailing your fingertips across the stars one minute 

And wrapping yourself in the dark velour the next

In the space where inspiration is bred 

And hearts are broken.

A price that demands payment,

Shaking hands with the future that includes my own mother at my funeral

An existence in which I am at war with myself constantly 

Where my body and mind dance as if it were their last waltz

Yet, there is no other space I would rather live,

You could not drag my body across to the alternative,

To the tope, the settlement,

I choose to be here,

In agony and in pleasure,

Even if it means I despise myself as much as I love myself. 

(Even if it mean hatred drips from my skin at the same rate that love flows through to my toes)

I will untie my soul upon the world as my offering 

And endure each blade placed gently within my flesh, 

Raw,

The cost of vulnerability.

I will live in the valley to experience the peak

When I acknowledge how all encompassing my emotions are on this side of life I imagine the life of another, the one I have chosen to become:

An artist tortured by his decision to feel. His poison picked, the glass poured, a toast to creation. The ceremony remains predominantly the same. The metaphorical gutting, the ingredients laid upon the sandstone, the recipe chosen, the meal made. The stitching of my soul through fabrication. It is necessary, and it is better than the internal festering I once allowed, but it is not without sacrifice. There is no choice in this life without a required retribution, so I choose the one that accepts my oblation and in turn offers a glimpse of heaven. Hell with God as a reprieve in lieu of purgatory cut with the Devil. 

In other words,

I will either spend my life smothering that which claws at my skin. In its frantic search for release, ripping my soul into shreds as I continue through this outside world, or I will relent to the pressure. I unlock the long closed door and allow the grooves to intertwine my body and mind. I allow the emotions to come and go as they please, as they are needed, in their full capacity. Painting with fire on a canvas made of wood.

So, what I think I’m trying to convey is, I would rather feel, no matter how devastating. No matter how heavy or hard or demanding. I would rather feel and perish, than to live in the numb. Would rather dive head first and cherish the filling of my lungs, than to skim across the surface. Would rather cover myself in gasoline and burn with the house than let the rotting wood spread. That there can be no expectations in this life, and to believe you know the intentions of the universe is an asking for a lesson, a gentle reminder that we must only be open, that we must only want to learn- not control- and that trust comes with an opening for pain, for sadness, but to live this life with an aversion to being hurt is the greatest disservice you could ever possibly do to yourself.

The highs are worth the lows- the spaces in between, few and far between, are held as my reason for living- the contentment, the peace, the slow ripple of the reckoning before the next drop falls

The cup of your hand on my cheek

The salt resting lightly on the surface of the sliced watermelon

The way it feels to realize yourself in this version for the first time

Trace your fingertips along the ridge and breathe

I shake my shoulders and watch as the birds fly free

And Humanity

To Love Oneself (Writing)

I’ve been noticing recently how different life feels when you love yourself.

I spent so long believing myself to be the ink that stained this precious life. Some malicious villain thinly veiled by the love and light I wanted to be. Incapable of deserving any other role.

I hoped so desperately someone would come and save me and prove to me I was worthy. That maybe I could be the princess.

I placed responsibility in everyone’s hands but my own and played the victim when each one inevitably fell short of being my savior. Of succeeding in an impossible role and completing a task I never asked of them.

It was so much easier to believe that I was intrinsically broken. That I was missing certain parts, the capabilities that those around me held as their right. 

And I don’t want for one second for you to be fooled that because I said it was easier that it was easy. I was tortured, I was miserable, I was suffocating at my own hands but unable to see past the dark veil I had placed over my own being. 

There is this phenomena I think of often. This awareness of a feeling with an inability to articulate it. I can touch my fingertips and feel it pulsing through my being. Sometimes it radiates around me, sometimes it vibrates inwardly. Sometimes it feels tight around my throat or hot and loose within my stomach. Others it weaves itself into my heart or fills the space behind my eyes. In any case, it is present. The moment of awareness before understanding. And it used to terrify me. I was so fearful of life without interpretation. I felt as if without understanding I could not control. I would spiral at the first acknowledgment of this feeling- hence why I turned off my emotions for so long. The cyclical process of feeling but not understanding —> desperately trying to grasp meaning or understanding to regain control —> an inability to understand the present feelings —> turning outwardly for external control or validation —> living completely within an ego mindset and losing all connection to my body and souls needs —> forcing my body to work as a slave in the misguided attempt to feel as if I regained some semblance of control (eating, working out, working harder, physically being validated, etc) —> not allowing any space for emotions to show up, to send their message, to exist, to be worked through naturally, not allowing soul time, not allowing rest —> eventual exhaustion and breakdown (a forced release of all the emotions I had been silencing but now not in a way of understanding but in a way of pressure needing to be released) —> fighting a war with my own being, my emotions being unable to work on my side or team due to me forcing them into a juxtaposition with my own being. A war against myself —> exhaustion, the return of numbness, and inability to sit comfortably with the remnants of the message or the emotions that had been released —> repeat trying to regain control —> and onward and onward. 

So this phenomena, this awareness, I now love and cherish. I find myself giddy upon recognizing it. As if some cycle is ending, some life/death/life necessity is coming. Some realization preparing to be made, wether it be later this week or later this year. It is signifying growth, change, life as it is meant to be lived. And it is why I cherish writing so much. Both the ability to write and digesting the writing of others. There is this eureka moment that happens so often in the absorption of the words of others. This THAT moment. When someone has so perfectly encapsulated a perceived feeling and written it so simply onto the page. The combination of language that perfectly interprets the fullness behind my eyes. Or the tingling of my fingertips. It’s the closest thing I have found in this world to magic. To the ability to feel like we are on this world for a reason. To feel connection to the human experience, to the soul of another.

How Powerful it feels to be understood. As I write about it now there is a river threatening to flow from the base of my throat trickling slowly from the rims of my eyelids. There is magic pooling within my sinuses asking me to close my eyes, tip my head back, and breath this life in deeply and slowly. I imagine this is how it feels as a producer adds the final note or an artist signs her name to her newest reflection of her life experience. 

It is in these moments the wind always seems to pick up and sing with pride as I feel, as I express. There is this closeness to the universe that we all deserve to live within. I often contemplate what it means to be a writer. But in reality, the answer is simple. It is what it means to be a human. To have a deep need and desire to be seen and to feel. To want to connect with others and share this little slice of life as it is experienced uniquely through my lens. It is for no other reason than to share. To be. To experience the feeling of reading your own emotions and the awe and bewilderment in the capability of other’s understanding.

Through this, I understand now how to best love myself and others. I understand that vulnerability is a gift, a practiced skill, and trusting is the bravest thing we can do in this life. To trust myself that my experience is worthy of connection, to trust others with the inner workings of my soul. Life lived with an aversion to the highest highs and lowest lows is the greatest disservice to yourself and others. Love fiercely, strive for peace not happiness. Live rooted in love for yourself, first, then others. Radiate gold, but know your boundaries. Allow space. And most importantly, find your version of connection