And when I say "I love you",
I say it
knowing you've heard it
a thousand times
I say it
knowing that it sounds
mundane
Or perfunctory
I say it
knowing that sometimes you must feel awkward
like you're
being forced to
acquiesce to something
(or worse, to reciprocate)
And finally
I say it
because I feel fragile
And because if I don't
the force
might burst through my
already crumbling foundation
Friday, May 15, 2015
"Actually, " I said, "I'm 46"
"No way," he said, "How do you even 46?" he asked, enthusiastically, in hipster speak.
I didn't know what to tell him until I'd
crossed the
Williamsburg Bridge
I thought,
You break,
many times,
you break, and you bleed, and you
heal, to
break again.
And each time you break, it
Hurts a little bit more,
But you
Bleed a little bit less.
"No way," he said, "How do you even 46?" he asked, enthusiastically, in hipster speak.
I didn't know what to tell him until I'd
crossed the
Williamsburg Bridge
I thought,
You break,
many times,
you break, and you bleed, and you
heal, to
break again.
And each time you break, it
Hurts a little bit more,
But you
Bleed a little bit less.
Monday, March 02, 2015
So, because I have no filter, and because I believe in living without apology, (even though much of the time I feel like I need to apologize for my existence,) and because I believe that the most vital activism is personal, and often a little dangerous, I want to talk about something that happened today in therapy: I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.
I'm only beginning to learn exactly what that means.
I know that there are a lot of stigma and assumptions around it, and that many of them are completely wrong. I know that it's inextricably tied to having survived years of violent and sometimes deadly abuse at the hands of ignorant, intolerant, queerbashing bigots, and two sexual assaults that happened to occur during seminal periods of my life when I should have been building a sense of self. I know, thanks to a wonderful friend of mine who also lives with BPD and has an amazing blog on the subject, that my extremely heightened sense of empathy, something I developed as a survival mechanism, is a part of BPD.
Being diagnosed with something that carries such a stigma is scary, but having a name for why I spend so much of my life feeling disconnected from others and empty inside, or why I've dealt with suicidality since I was 8 years old, or why I have such an intense fear of abandonment, feels oddly hopeful; I know I'm not the only one in the world anymore, and for that, I'm thankful.
I'm only beginning to learn exactly what that means.
I know that there are a lot of stigma and assumptions around it, and that many of them are completely wrong. I know that it's inextricably tied to having survived years of violent and sometimes deadly abuse at the hands of ignorant, intolerant, queerbashing bigots, and two sexual assaults that happened to occur during seminal periods of my life when I should have been building a sense of self. I know, thanks to a wonderful friend of mine who also lives with BPD and has an amazing blog on the subject, that my extremely heightened sense of empathy, something I developed as a survival mechanism, is a part of BPD.
Being diagnosed with something that carries such a stigma is scary, but having a name for why I spend so much of my life feeling disconnected from others and empty inside, or why I've dealt with suicidality since I was 8 years old, or why I have such an intense fear of abandonment, feels oddly hopeful; I know I'm not the only one in the world anymore, and for that, I'm thankful.
Thursday, December 04, 2014
I can breathe
I can breathe because
Although I'm terrified whenever I see a blue uniform, I pass easily as white, so chances are, their attentions are elsewhere.
I can breathe because if I do get stopped for any number of reasons, chances are, I'll go home after little more than a desk appearance.
I can breathe because
Although I am trans, queer, poor, disabled, of mixed non-European heritages, pierced, tatooed etc., in this country, even after a civil war, Selma, Dr. King, Malcolm X, and countless others who fought for dignity and equality, my skin tone alone, an accident of birth, still grants me greater privelege.
I can breathe because
I am not Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Tarika Wilson, Tamir Rice, Yvette Smith, etc. etc. etc. etc.
I can still breathe
Until however, my siblings are safe
I will not breathe free.
I will not breathe free.
I can breathe because
Although I'm terrified whenever I see a blue uniform, I pass easily as white, so chances are, their attentions are elsewhere.
I can breathe because if I do get stopped for any number of reasons, chances are, I'll go home after little more than a desk appearance.
I can breathe because
Although I am trans, queer, poor, disabled, of mixed non-European heritages, pierced, tatooed etc., in this country, even after a civil war, Selma, Dr. King, Malcolm X, and countless others who fought for dignity and equality, my skin tone alone, an accident of birth, still grants me greater privelege.
I can breathe because
I am not Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Tarika Wilson, Tamir Rice, Yvette Smith, etc. etc. etc. etc.
I can still breathe
Until however, my siblings are safe
I will not breathe free.
I will not breathe free.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
For Ferguson
They are pulling the people's teeth
One by one
by one by one
This is how it will work:
First they take your freedom, your autonomy and your choices.
Then, they take your hope, until you think you've nothing left.
Finally, they take your voice, so that no one can hear you scream. That's when you take to the streets.
When you've little to lose but your own life.
That's when you become their worst nightmare.
This is a lesson they'll never understand.
One by one
by one by one
This is how it will work:
First they take your freedom, your autonomy and your choices.
Then, they take your hope, until you think you've nothing left.
Finally, they take your voice, so that no one can hear you scream. That's when you take to the streets.
When you've little to lose but your own life.
That's when you become their worst nightmare.
This is a lesson they'll never understand.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Long the egg had labored under the belief that deep inside her, she held life, just like other eggs.
She spent her days in warm thought of what that life would be. One day, while eggling about in eggy ways, she bumped into another egg.
"She was so heavy", she thought, "I think I've cracked my shell. "
She felt the spot that was still warm from the contact, and sure enough, there was a crack.
"Oh dear", she said to herself, "I'll have to patch that", and that's exactly what she did.
The patch held well for quite some time, and the egg enjoyed being as eggy as possible. "Afterall," she'd say, "we eggs are delicate. We do get cracks sometimes, but it's hardly reason to sit in the nest! What kind of life is that? "
One day, the egg decided to go to an egg party. It was the egg event of the year, so she readied herself carefully, polishing her patched shell, artfully fraying the edges of her patch, and checking herself in the mirror over and over again.
When she got there, there were so many eggs! Some were- like her, beige, others were white, some were brown, and some were small and blue with brown specks, but all of them were oh, so beautiful.
"Finally", she said to anyegg who might be listening, "I feel like I'm home. "
As she egged herself through the beautiful crowd, she found herself bumped from every side. It felt so warm, this contact with other eggs, but she became worried about her delicate, already patched shell, and decided she'd better go to the restroom, and make sure the damage wasn't as bad as she feared.
She waited in the line, and when it was her turn, she shut and locked the door behind her and looked at herself in the tiny, high mirror.
The damage was in fact, worse than she'd thought: she'd developed a pit, where several cracks joined together.
"It's so unfair, " she thought, "all these other eggs, bumping into each other, and they're all fine, but I try to do what they do, and I break.
She began to sob, and as she did, her little eggy body was filled with shakes and quakes, which only served to worsen the cracks.
"Oh dear, " she said, over and over again, "oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I don't know what to do. These other eggs are so beautiful, and feel so heavy with life and warmth, and when I'm alone, I miss their warmth and heaviness and life! Oh dear, oh dear oh dear oh dear! " she cried.
Eventually, another egg knocked on the restroom door, for while she'd been inside, a line had developed, so she blew her eggy nose, and wiped her eggy eyes, and when she did, the pit that had fallen in on her eggy forehead, collapsed into her. She was stunned, and scared, and she hoisted her eggy self closer to the tiny mirror to inspect the damage. When she looked closely, she could see, and she understood: the other eggs had felt so heavy, so warm and full of life to her, because all along, unlike them, she'd really been only an empty shell.
She spent her days in warm thought of what that life would be. One day, while eggling about in eggy ways, she bumped into another egg.
"She was so heavy", she thought, "I think I've cracked my shell. "
She felt the spot that was still warm from the contact, and sure enough, there was a crack.
"Oh dear", she said to herself, "I'll have to patch that", and that's exactly what she did.
The patch held well for quite some time, and the egg enjoyed being as eggy as possible. "Afterall," she'd say, "we eggs are delicate. We do get cracks sometimes, but it's hardly reason to sit in the nest! What kind of life is that? "
One day, the egg decided to go to an egg party. It was the egg event of the year, so she readied herself carefully, polishing her patched shell, artfully fraying the edges of her patch, and checking herself in the mirror over and over again.
When she got there, there were so many eggs! Some were- like her, beige, others were white, some were brown, and some were small and blue with brown specks, but all of them were oh, so beautiful.
"Finally", she said to anyegg who might be listening, "I feel like I'm home. "
As she egged herself through the beautiful crowd, she found herself bumped from every side. It felt so warm, this contact with other eggs, but she became worried about her delicate, already patched shell, and decided she'd better go to the restroom, and make sure the damage wasn't as bad as she feared.
She waited in the line, and when it was her turn, she shut and locked the door behind her and looked at herself in the tiny, high mirror.
The damage was in fact, worse than she'd thought: she'd developed a pit, where several cracks joined together.
"It's so unfair, " she thought, "all these other eggs, bumping into each other, and they're all fine, but I try to do what they do, and I break.
She began to sob, and as she did, her little eggy body was filled with shakes and quakes, which only served to worsen the cracks.
"Oh dear, " she said, over and over again, "oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I don't know what to do. These other eggs are so beautiful, and feel so heavy with life and warmth, and when I'm alone, I miss their warmth and heaviness and life! Oh dear, oh dear oh dear oh dear! " she cried.
Eventually, another egg knocked on the restroom door, for while she'd been inside, a line had developed, so she blew her eggy nose, and wiped her eggy eyes, and when she did, the pit that had fallen in on her eggy forehead, collapsed into her. She was stunned, and scared, and she hoisted her eggy self closer to the tiny mirror to inspect the damage. When she looked closely, she could see, and she understood: the other eggs had felt so heavy, so warm and full of life to her, because all along, unlike them, she'd really been only an empty shell.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
We were born into worlds that weren't built for us,
We've jostled and twisted, just to be able to feel like we could breathe.
We have been octagonal pegs in square holes, and there's not one amongst us who hasn't known the strike of the hammer that tried- through force, to make us fit.
We've been "problems that need to be addressed", and "why can't you just be normal"s.
We know what it is to be the butt of jokes, and then told that we take these things far too personally.
We have been beaten, raped, and stripped of our identities and bodily autonomy and, when one of us is murdered, as so many of us have been, and as so many of us will be, we know that we will likely be misgendered, and slandered by media, and maybe even family, even after we are dead.
We are not pathetic clowns; we paint ourselves brightly because our lipstick is war paint, and our lives are a daily war in a world that's determined to marginalize us, to humiliate us, and to kill us. We may lose this battle, but we will win this war.
Stonewall was only the beginning.
We've jostled and twisted, just to be able to feel like we could breathe.
We have been octagonal pegs in square holes, and there's not one amongst us who hasn't known the strike of the hammer that tried- through force, to make us fit.
We've been "problems that need to be addressed", and "why can't you just be normal"s.
We know what it is to be the butt of jokes, and then told that we take these things far too personally.
We have been beaten, raped, and stripped of our identities and bodily autonomy and, when one of us is murdered, as so many of us have been, and as so many of us will be, we know that we will likely be misgendered, and slandered by media, and maybe even family, even after we are dead.
We are not pathetic clowns; we paint ourselves brightly because our lipstick is war paint, and our lives are a daily war in a world that's determined to marginalize us, to humiliate us, and to kill us. We may lose this battle, but we will win this war.
Stonewall was only the beginning.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Because, even though you're a straight, cis man, I'm supposed to feel safe around you because we're related, but when you get drunk, you "can't be held accountable",
Because when I tell you I don't want to have a conversation about my breasts you go on to tell me that they "look like they could use a good manhandling",
Because when I tell you it's not a compliment, and that you're making me uncomfortable, you value your own ego too much to lay off,
Because when I reveal to you, that I was sexually assaulted when I was fifteen, you feel entitled to tell me I'm making YOU uncomfortable with "too much information",
Because you feel entitled enough, to break me down into the parts of my body, to weigh them for my worthiness,
And because
After all this, you tell me, I have no sense of humor,
and that I'm
"overreacting".
#YesALLWomen
Because when I tell you I don't want to have a conversation about my breasts you go on to tell me that they "look like they could use a good manhandling",
Because when I tell you it's not a compliment, and that you're making me uncomfortable, you value your own ego too much to lay off,
Because when I reveal to you, that I was sexually assaulted when I was fifteen, you feel entitled to tell me I'm making YOU uncomfortable with "too much information",
Because you feel entitled enough, to break me down into the parts of my body, to weigh them for my worthiness,
And because
After all this, you tell me, I have no sense of humor,
and that I'm
"overreacting".
#YesALLWomen
Thursday, September 11, 2014
I was fifteen.
He was nineteen.
We had drama class together.
We went to the same school.
He invited me over.
"We'll hang out", he'd said.
He answered the door in
"tighty whities".
I followed him into the dark in-
terior of his house.
In his room, a super 8 projector machine-gunned silent 70's porn onto his wall.
He sat on the floor, his back against the
metal closet door.
In his lap, he'd placed a
two-handed vibrating massager,
the kind, I remember thinking,
Burgess Meredith might have run over Rocky's back before a fight.
He asked if I wanted to help.
He'd framed it as a question,
An option,
A request, but
It wasn't.
Afterwards,
He made me hide
crouched down on the floor of the frontseat of his parked car,
Under the steering wheel
In his unlit driveway,
for four and a half hours, until after midnight.
Until his parents were home,
until they were in bed,
until they were asleep.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
I wish that I could take a picture of a feeling:
Humidity free, May morning air on the skin of my upper arms-
seventy degrees, yet
still,
a small chill
Crystal yellow sunlight, too developed I think for eight, but the sun's been up for a while now
(my winter tempered internal clock?)
And the smell:
Our Upper East Side block smells like Florida
(I wonder, will anyone understand what I mean?)
I wish
I could take out my cellphone and snap a picture of all this
Then I realize:
Standing squinting shivering slightly smelling feeling
Thumbs swiping
o'er my phone's keyboard,
That that's exactly
what I've done.
Humidity free, May morning air on the skin of my upper arms-
seventy degrees, yet
still,
a small chill
Crystal yellow sunlight, too developed I think for eight, but the sun's been up for a while now
(my winter tempered internal clock?)
And the smell:
Our Upper East Side block smells like Florida
(I wonder, will anyone understand what I mean?)
I wish
I could take out my cellphone and snap a picture of all this
Then I realize:
Standing squinting shivering slightly smelling feeling
Thumbs swiping
o'er my phone's keyboard,
That that's exactly
what I've done.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
a radical declaration
I love this body,
MY body,
My fat, trans, hairy, femme, invisibly crippled, inconvenient, queer and capable of fucking miracles body
Every curve,
every roll,
every hairy fucking follicle
I love that the simple act of eating a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in public
is a revolutionary act
I love that I take up space,
And I love that this pisses off all the right people
I love my body, and I'm gonna celebrate it, in
loud, bright, short, crop tops that show off this beautiful, round tummy,
And short skirts that show the world these
powerful thunder-thighs,
By dancing in bliss, and loving
every movement of my fat,
And by fucking and owning every ounce, pound, and inch of my pleasure.
I love this body, and I'll keep on loving it, because
according to just about
every magazine,
every TV show and commercial,
every movie that would relegate me to the role of
one dimensional comedic sidekick,
and every "concerned" comment on posted picture of myself in a bikini,
I am unloveable
I'm a joke
but I know that that's not true
because
I love this body
and all the other
fat, full-figured, zaftig, obese, beautiful and perfect folx with whom I share this body,
And who's bodies I am privileged to love,
know,
and they can tell you
that this fat, trans, hairy, femme, invisibly crippled, inconvenient, queer, miraculous fucking body will
rock your fucking world.
Friday, January 03, 2014
Monday, December 16, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
There is
so much loveliness here
in these three-o-clock shadows-
the naked trees that spread their claws
o'er the slick black road
ice spikes that threaten
from stone ceilings of transverse tunnels
and in the cold that promises to wait out my patient bones
So much loveliness, that
I would be fine
to leave it all behind
so long as I might depart
with its
taste yet upon my cold lips.
so much loveliness here
in these three-o-clock shadows-
the naked trees that spread their claws
o'er the slick black road
ice spikes that threaten
from stone ceilings of transverse tunnels
and in the cold that promises to wait out my patient bones
So much loveliness, that
I would be fine
to leave it all behind
so long as I might depart
with its
taste yet upon my cold lips.
Saturday, December 07, 2013
I think I need to come out again, not as a trans* this time, nor as a lesbian, but as someone who suffers from major depression and anxiety disorder. I'm not writing this to solicit notes of sympathy or support, (I know my family and friends love me,) but because I'm ashamed.
Being depressed, in addition to making certain feelings of helplessness and hopelessness extremely pronounced, causes me to feel more or less worthless, and as someone who feels worthless, the other feelings of pain start to feel like an unearned indulgence, because no matter how I know that it's not my fault, there's that nasty stigma- that nagging inner voice that tells me I should be able to move through my life productively, like "everyone else", if only I would "just get over it".
I know that these are lies I tell myself, and that I'm not worthless, (that's how I'm able to share these feelings,) but much of the time, that's how I truly feel.
I know I'm not the only one who's daily life is a battle with major depression and/or crippling anxiety, and I know I'm not the only one who victimizes herself with this kind of hurtful self-talk. I'm sharing this part of myself, because, as we are with our queerness, it's time we were about all the aspects of who we are. We ought not suffer from shame because we fail to represent some shining ideal of emotional and/or mental and/or physical fitness. Instead, we should revel in our strength, the strength we find when we reject the outside expectations, the power we reclaim, when we choose live our genuine lives without shame.
Being depressed, in addition to making certain feelings of helplessness and hopelessness extremely pronounced, causes me to feel more or less worthless, and as someone who feels worthless, the other feelings of pain start to feel like an unearned indulgence, because no matter how I know that it's not my fault, there's that nasty stigma- that nagging inner voice that tells me I should be able to move through my life productively, like "everyone else", if only I would "just get over it".
I know that these are lies I tell myself, and that I'm not worthless, (that's how I'm able to share these feelings,) but much of the time, that's how I truly feel.
I know I'm not the only one who's daily life is a battle with major depression and/or crippling anxiety, and I know I'm not the only one who victimizes herself with this kind of hurtful self-talk. I'm sharing this part of myself, because, as we are with our queerness, it's time we were about all the aspects of who we are. We ought not suffer from shame because we fail to represent some shining ideal of emotional and/or mental and/or physical fitness. Instead, we should revel in our strength, the strength we find when we reject the outside expectations, the power we reclaim, when we choose live our genuine lives without shame.
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
An open letter to a cisgender friend who excitedly informed me of a part she'd gotten playing a trans* woman in an indie film:
Although I'd originally congratulated you, my conscience wouldn't allow me to leave something unsaid; understand that I think highly of you, as both an actor and as a human being, and that I don't fault you in the least for innocently taking on what promises to be both an interesting and challenging role. That said, I have to admit that when I read your excited pronouncement, I found myself shaking, and that soon after, came tears, nausea, and a level of upset that at first I didn't understand.
The fact is, frankly, it's unacceptable that the creators of your film chose you, a cis woman, to play the part of a trans* character.
Maybe I sound harsh, but hear me out: Time and again, trans* lives are used by popular media as little more than awkward plot devices, or worse, (as in recent episodes of both "Mike & Molly" and "Two and a Half Men",) the punchline of harmful and hurtful jokes; more often than not, we're cast as predators, out to trick unwitting straight men into betraying their heterosexuality. The usual joke goes like this:
Joe Stud meets a gorgeous chick at the bar. The two of them are getting hot and heavy, when suddenly, it turns out that the gorgeous chick has (or had,) a penis. Joe Stud is now a laughingstock, because he fell for a dude, and the whole world knows it. That's right, according to the ever repeated joke, the trans* woman isn't a woman at all; she's, or, "he's" a "dude". Do you see what I'm getting at?
Wait though, it actually gets worse, because you see, as the studio audience (or laugh track or whatever) titters nervously, or groans, or laughs at a character revealed to be trans*, (and the emasculated guy who got duped,) another would-be attacker of a trans* person is validated in his feeling that we're dangerous or even just "icky", that our lives are inherently "less than", and that it's therefore okay that scores of trans* women (and although less frequently, not less notable, trans* men) are killed each year, simply because they're trans*.
Look; I know that you're a good and thoughtful person, and that you'll do your best to play this role with as much sensitivity and understanding as possible; I also know, that had you any understanding of how insensitive and hurtful it is when trans* roles are played by cis actors, you would have never accepted it, but how could you have known? Afterall, you only know me through my Facebook posts since we haven't seen one another since 1985; otherwise, it's more likely than not that your main understanding of trans* lives comes from those aforementioned misrepresentations popular culture is so fond of. You're not trans*, and so you enjoy the privilege of moving through your daily life without ever having to worry about passing, or not passing, or being harassed or arrested for using the restroom consummate with your true gender, or how or when or if to safely "come out" to a prospective romantic or sexual partner. None of these things, nor the myriad of others that sometimes render so many of us trans* folk's lives a neurotic nightmare are issues for you; you're both privileged, and lucky.
Unfortunately, it's because of just that, that it's so inappropriate for you to undertake this role, and so, while I wish you joy and success, I simply can't congratulate you or share in your excitement.
Although I'd originally congratulated you, my conscience wouldn't allow me to leave something unsaid; understand that I think highly of you, as both an actor and as a human being, and that I don't fault you in the least for innocently taking on what promises to be both an interesting and challenging role. That said, I have to admit that when I read your excited pronouncement, I found myself shaking, and that soon after, came tears, nausea, and a level of upset that at first I didn't understand.
The fact is, frankly, it's unacceptable that the creators of your film chose you, a cis woman, to play the part of a trans* character.
Maybe I sound harsh, but hear me out: Time and again, trans* lives are used by popular media as little more than awkward plot devices, or worse, (as in recent episodes of both "Mike & Molly" and "Two and a Half Men",) the punchline of harmful and hurtful jokes; more often than not, we're cast as predators, out to trick unwitting straight men into betraying their heterosexuality. The usual joke goes like this:
Joe Stud meets a gorgeous chick at the bar. The two of them are getting hot and heavy, when suddenly, it turns out that the gorgeous chick has (or had,) a penis. Joe Stud is now a laughingstock, because he fell for a dude, and the whole world knows it. That's right, according to the ever repeated joke, the trans* woman isn't a woman at all; she's, or, "he's" a "dude". Do you see what I'm getting at?
Wait though, it actually gets worse, because you see, as the studio audience (or laugh track or whatever) titters nervously, or groans, or laughs at a character revealed to be trans*, (and the emasculated guy who got duped,) another would-be attacker of a trans* person is validated in his feeling that we're dangerous or even just "icky", that our lives are inherently "less than", and that it's therefore okay that scores of trans* women (and although less frequently, not less notable, trans* men) are killed each year, simply because they're trans*.
Look; I know that you're a good and thoughtful person, and that you'll do your best to play this role with as much sensitivity and understanding as possible; I also know, that had you any understanding of how insensitive and hurtful it is when trans* roles are played by cis actors, you would have never accepted it, but how could you have known? Afterall, you only know me through my Facebook posts since we haven't seen one another since 1985; otherwise, it's more likely than not that your main understanding of trans* lives comes from those aforementioned misrepresentations popular culture is so fond of. You're not trans*, and so you enjoy the privilege of moving through your daily life without ever having to worry about passing, or not passing, or being harassed or arrested for using the restroom consummate with your true gender, or how or when or if to safely "come out" to a prospective romantic or sexual partner. None of these things, nor the myriad of others that sometimes render so many of us trans* folk's lives a neurotic nightmare are issues for you; you're both privileged, and lucky.
Unfortunately, it's because of just that, that it's so inappropriate for you to undertake this role, and so, while I wish you joy and success, I simply can't congratulate you or share in your excitement.
Sunday, December 01, 2013
Saturday, September 07, 2013
I want
I want
I want to feel light.
I want it to be December already, so I can finally have my "enso" wrist tattoo.
I want gluten free pizza that
tastes like pizza
and
a dress that's easy to wear, machine washable and looks great on me.
I want to master mindfulness meditation, and
I want to visit my parents
and for my mom to tell me
that I'm pretty.
I want to feel
as if I've
earned the exhaustion that sometimes creeps into my bones like mold, and
I want more lazy, sunny days with
low humidity
and a high of 60.
I want Republicans to suddenly, and universally lose all credibility, and
"reality programming" to
fall out of favor.
I want more unhurried morning sex, and more and better choices on Netflix.
I want you to want to learn my body.
I want you to be happy.
I want you to be able to walk 20 blocks without getting tired, and
I want to be able to do that too.
Middle-of-the-night-half-asleep-sex is awesome too by the way.
Most of all,
I want to stop passing time,
and to stop having to choose
between
being in the world,
and
being with you.
I want to feel light.
I want it to be December already, so I can finally have my "enso" wrist tattoo.
I want gluten free pizza that
tastes like pizza
and
a dress that's easy to wear, machine washable and looks great on me.
I want to master mindfulness meditation, and
I want to visit my parents
and for my mom to tell me
that I'm pretty.
I want to feel
as if I've
earned the exhaustion that sometimes creeps into my bones like mold, and
I want more lazy, sunny days with
low humidity
and a high of 60.
I want Republicans to suddenly, and universally lose all credibility, and
"reality programming" to
fall out of favor.
I want more unhurried morning sex, and more and better choices on Netflix.
I want you to want to learn my body.
I want you to be happy.
I want you to be able to walk 20 blocks without getting tired, and
I want to be able to do that too.
Middle-of-the-night-half-asleep-sex is awesome too by the way.
Most of all,
I want to stop passing time,
and to stop having to choose
between
being in the world,
and
being with you.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Dorothea
As the beat rises
her nerves remember:
The scaffold of ossified calcium trembles
beneath the atrophied muscles
A gentle, sad smile
She closes her eyes
leans back into her chair
and dances.
her nerves remember:
The scaffold of ossified calcium trembles
beneath the atrophied muscles
A gentle, sad smile
She closes her eyes
leans back into her chair
and dances.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Dear terrorists;
The people you killed and maimed today have nothing to do with your war. They were innocents, with people who love them, people they love/d, dreams and fears, children and boyfriends, girlfriends and wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and friends, and they themselves were all these things too.
You did not win your cause, but you disrupted worlds, caused grief that will never end for some, fear that will live on forever for others, and again, these people had nothing to do with you. Your act was selfish and petty and mean.
You may have intended to make a point, but you did not. You may have imagined you were fighting for some glorious cause, or that you were defeating some great satan. Neither is true.
What is true, is that you caused pain beyond belief, set back immeasurably, whatever cause you represent, and for some innocent people who had no quarrel with you, and perhaps even sympathized with you, you brought their entire universe to an end.
The people you killed and maimed today have nothing to do with your war. They were innocents, with people who love them, people they love/d, dreams and fears, children and boyfriends, girlfriends and wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and friends, and they themselves were all these things too.
You did not win your cause, but you disrupted worlds, caused grief that will never end for some, fear that will live on forever for others, and again, these people had nothing to do with you. Your act was selfish and petty and mean.
You may have intended to make a point, but you did not. You may have imagined you were fighting for some glorious cause, or that you were defeating some great satan. Neither is true.
What is true, is that you caused pain beyond belief, set back immeasurably, whatever cause you represent, and for some innocent people who had no quarrel with you, and perhaps even sympathized with you, you brought their entire universe to an end.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
