There was a moment - a solid, shining, crystalline moment - when I could have delivered him a square kick in the balls. Everything was moving so quickly - it's really all just a blur - but that moment was slow and painfully logical. I remember being on the floor, him bent over me, hands on my wrists above my head, and I remember looking straight at his groin, wide open and exposed, and my foot just a few inches away, a clear shot. I remember understanding that he did not understand what he was in the process of doing, and that he was ignorant, a boy more than a man, and that I cared about him and did not want to hurt him, even as I could feel pain blossoming in my wrist beneath his fingers. Most of all, I remember that I could have knocked him back, sent him stumbling, articulated to him an even clearer message about my stance on his current activities - and in that solid, shining, crystalline moment, I decided not to.
I don't remember how it all started. I don't remember why he finally ended up stopping. I don't remember how I got back to my car. I don't remember how I got home. But I remember that moment, because at that point, someone could have told me that it was my fault, even more than it already seemed to be, and I might have actually believed that person for a minute or two.
I remember lying naked in bed, being awoken by a man looming over me, and feeling groggy and fuzzy as he nuzzled my neck. "Just go with it," he whispered. I remember I was tired, and I'd slept with him earlier, and I thought it would somehow be unfair if I said "no," at that point, that it would somehow be unreasonable to deny him. I remember that I did not want to send mixed signals, because that would be cruel, evil, bitchy, the worst of the worst.
I know I apologize when I don't want to go all the way, am quick to take the blame for getting a guy "all riled up," and then not being willing to release the energy with him. It is as though, just by being there, and being even partially agreeable, I have consented that anything that happens is somehow my fault, and that stopping the interaction at any point beyond that is somehow taboo. To kiss too deeply has become a promise, a contract that I will be made to feel that I have breached.
I remember that moment, and I tell men I get involved with that if I feel threatened, that if they are not listening, I will fight back. I tell them that I will not pull my punches, telling myself as much as I am telling them, thinking that since I provided a disclaimer, that since I warned them, that I will not hesitate when the time comes, that I will not feel guilty for defending myself. I warn them that no means no, and I quietly rage that I feel it is necessary to give them such a basic language lesson.
I feel the need to escape when men are too persistent in getting close to me on the dance floor. When they wrap their arms around me, and bump and grind against me, making me glad that I am wearing tights underneath my skirt, I have to resist the urge to violently throw myself from their hold, dashing myself against the freedom the music offers. Instead, I artfully twirl away, breath still hung up against the pulse jackrabbiting in my throat, and I prepare to slip out of the club if the same man corners me again. And I berate myself for my fear, because that's just how men dance at clubs - most don't know any other way. But their ignorance is dangerous - if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I tried to explain it to him, but to this day he does not understand. He refuses. He likes to think that he's grown from the experience, that because I left him and refused to see him or talk to him again, he's become a better person. But he cannot see it. He cannot comprehend why I was upset that night, why it seems that I cannot forgive him. He still thinks that I am holding a "pointless grudge" because he "accidentally sprained" my wrist. No does not mean no to him, is not simple, was invalid because I had just kissed him. No did not mean no to him because I was sending mixed signals, because I had that solid, shining, crystalline moment where I could have kicked him but didn't want to hurt him and so let the moment pass.
Never mind that I was squirming and screaming and doing whatever else I could to get away from him. Never mind that I was crying, that I don't remember how I managed to get home, only that my hands were trembling and every bump jostled my wrist and sent fresh pains down my arm. Never mind that there was so much that reminded me of him for weeks, that I just couldn't stand, see, do. Never mind that I was skittish around males for a good year following that night, couldn't let them touch my wrist, panicked if they kissed me too deeply. Never mind that I am still afraid, still having to deal with the aftermath, still feeling that it is somehow my fault, even though it's not. Never mind that he has permanently altered the way I relate to men, that he has done his best to transform me into a victim.
I am angry that I am afraid. I am pissed that I am apologetic. I am enraged that I feel obligated. I am furious that I feel even the tiniest shred of guilt for something that was never my fault, no matter what stupid things I did or didn't do leading up to it, because I shouldn't have had to go through that - he shouldn't have put me through that!
But this is our culture. We make villains out of victims and victims out of villains. We turn kisses into contracts, and condemn mixed signals as malicious. We encourage ignorance and take silence for consent. And worst of all, we normalize terrifying behavior, teach no other ways, so that if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
7/13/12
7/4/12
Mourning
I'm finally alone here. The air conditioning hums in a monotone manner that invokes silence. I only know it's on because I can feel the cool air brushing across the side of my calf and tickling the back of my thigh, just above the crook of my knee. I feel it, a cold caress that reminds me of all the warmth I'm lacking.
Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.
I'm mourning, I suppose.
I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.
A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?
The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.
I am mourning.
I need to go underground.
Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.
I'm mourning, I suppose.
I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.
A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?
The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.
I am mourning.
I need to go underground.
7/1/12
To the Patron Saint of Lost Causes
I am the Queen
of Mixed Signals.
I have dancer's feet and swaying hips;
I am at home in unholy high heels
And darkened dance clubs call my name.
I play love like it's a game.
Like a spider,
I will draw you in by your weakness,
Disable you with pleasant poison,
Then cast your carcass,
half-alive,
To the side -
And move on.
(They are never so sweet as I anticipate.)
I am the Queen
of Mixed Signals -
Of warm words between barbed kisses -
Of honey cut with vinegar -
Of parted lip smiles and pointed teeth -
Of romantic candlelight on an autopsy table.
I play love like it's a game.
of Mixed Signals.
I have dancer's feet and swaying hips;
I am at home in unholy high heels
And darkened dance clubs call my name.
I play love like it's a game.
Like a spider,
I will draw you in by your weakness,
Disable you with pleasant poison,
Then cast your carcass,
half-alive,
To the side -
And move on.
(They are never so sweet as I anticipate.)
I am the Queen
of Mixed Signals -
Of warm words between barbed kisses -
Of honey cut with vinegar -
Of parted lip smiles and pointed teeth -
Of romantic candlelight on an autopsy table.
I play love like it's a game.
To the (Potential) Villainess of My Life's Story
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
Hooting at the reach of your lungs, stationary in the floodlight -
Who are you, really?
You smile as you open doors for strangers,
And glare as you saunter past friends -
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
You unpack your heart like a whore one day,
The next, stand silent like a stone -
Who are you, really?
You let your barbs fly free, snap and twist,
Without regard for where or how they may land -
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
How can you bubble over and curtsy in the streets
On your way home to sit still and blank in the dark?
Who are you, really?
Finding no resolution in your contradictions,
I'm not sure which version to believe.
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
Who are you, really?
Hooting at the reach of your lungs, stationary in the floodlight -
Who are you, really?
You smile as you open doors for strangers,
And glare as you saunter past friends -
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
You unpack your heart like a whore one day,
The next, stand silent like a stone -
Who are you, really?
You let your barbs fly free, snap and twist,
Without regard for where or how they may land -
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
How can you bubble over and curtsy in the streets
On your way home to sit still and blank in the dark?
Who are you, really?
Finding no resolution in your contradictions,
I'm not sure which version to believe.
Don't you be that kind of barn owl!
Who are you, really?
To Delilah, From Samson
I never see you anymore.
I look for you in doorways off the main drag,
Thinking I've spied the press of your hip
Against the frame,
But the shadows mock your attitude
too well.
On Friday afternoons,
I stare out my window,
Ignoring my phone's insistent buzz
Informing me much less dangerous people
Want my attentions.
Instead of answering,
I search the muddy tides passing in the street,
Praying for eyes inked on bared shoulder blades
to surface.
Sometimes, at one in the morning,
When the world is coming loose
From its moorings,
I'll turn too abruptly and fall.
As the bricks abrade my palms,
The distant clatter of high heels
I mistook for your savage laugh
fades.
I remember you took me dancing.
Your fishnets were ripped,
Your lace miniskirt flashing red silk
At every turn -
You told a slavering man
It was purposeful.
We exchanged smirks over his shoulder
As you nibbled his neck.
I did not recognize the edgy emotion I pushed down
as jealousy.
No, I never see you anymore.
It makes me nervous,
Like a crocodile in a river,
So busy eyeing horses along the banks,
He has only just realized
He has lost sight of the hippopotamus.
I look for you in doorways off the main drag,
Thinking I've spied the press of your hip
Against the frame,
But the shadows mock your attitude
too well.
On Friday afternoons,
I stare out my window,
Ignoring my phone's insistent buzz
Informing me much less dangerous people
Want my attentions.
Instead of answering,
I search the muddy tides passing in the street,
Praying for eyes inked on bared shoulder blades
to surface.
Sometimes, at one in the morning,
When the world is coming loose
From its moorings,
I'll turn too abruptly and fall.
As the bricks abrade my palms,
The distant clatter of high heels
I mistook for your savage laugh
fades.
I remember you took me dancing.
Your fishnets were ripped,
Your lace miniskirt flashing red silk
At every turn -
You told a slavering man
It was purposeful.
We exchanged smirks over his shoulder
As you nibbled his neck.
I did not recognize the edgy emotion I pushed down
as jealousy.
No, I never see you anymore.
It makes me nervous,
Like a crocodile in a river,
So busy eyeing horses along the banks,
He has only just realized
He has lost sight of the hippopotamus.
Salvation
This is a burning city.
Spires stretch for the sky,
gilded and ornate,
bells clanging to call in crowds,
boasting the architecture of "forever":
The people must be saved!
The steeples reach for an uncertain resurrection
as the floorboards dissipate into ash.
The city is consumed.
Evading the reek of charring flesh,
small secret spaces -
pockets of greenery hidden among
dusty carriage houses,
proudly molding mansions,
and crooked row houses -
quietly collect water:
Bloom, wither,
and bloom again.
Spires stretch for the sky,
gilded and ornate,
bells clanging to call in crowds,
boasting the architecture of "forever":
The people must be saved!
The steeples reach for an uncertain resurrection
as the floorboards dissipate into ash.
The city is consumed.
Evading the reek of charring flesh,
small secret spaces -
pockets of greenery hidden among
dusty carriage houses,
proudly molding mansions,
and crooked row houses -
quietly collect water:
Bloom, wither,
and bloom again.
Reflections
I feel you like I feel myself;
You are caught in me.
Touch your heart and you touch mine,
Reaching through a mirror.
Half my heart is on my sleeve;
You are missing half of yours.
Draw the line ---
Or simply break it.
Either stay or leave.
You feel me like you feel yourself;
I am caught in you.
Stop my heart and I stop yours,
Shattering a mirror.
You are caught in me.
Touch your heart and you touch mine,
Reaching through a mirror.
Half my heart is on my sleeve;
You are missing half of yours.
Draw the line ---
Or simply break it.
Either stay or leave.
You feel me like you feel yourself;
I am caught in you.
Stop my heart and I stop yours,
Shattering a mirror.
Maybe
Maybe you know me -
Maybe you don't.
Maybe this could be something -
Maybe it won't.
Do I want this?
I'm not sure yet.
But let's not pretend
That patterns aren't ever-present
And play like the past
Can lose its resonance.
But for sure,
This experience is something
I can't forget -
The past was once the present.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)