If you
Stabbed me in the chest
With a kitchen knife
And I dripped
"Fuck you"
From my lips
You would not speak to me for three days
You would say "nah, fuck me, right?"
And look right past me
And at my funeral
You would say I was really pretty mean
Then you'd need another three days
To recover from the sound
Of other people crying
And maybe three days after that
You'd have a reasonable excuse
To say things like "fuck you"
Because
Of course
You'd be "griev ing."
I remember when I realized he raped me
And the joke wasn't funny anymore
I remember standing in the front lawn
When he called me a whore
I remember throwing up after the baby
Until my entire soul was sore
I remember thinking I had found hope
Then being punished for wanting more
And yet
When you want me to forget
How I deserve to be treated
Or what I desperately needed
All you have to do is yank away
Anything I try to say
Crumple it
Spit on it
Twist it up until I've lost the thread
Leave me on read
Fuck you
You made me promise not to say
Fuck you
But I have given up on being known
I have given up on being heard
So if all that is left of me
Is a muted TV
The caption will still read
FUCK YOU
Silence when I wake up
He's working
Silence when I bring home food
His stomach hurts
Silence when I rush to work
He's tired
Silence when I rush home for lunches
He's napping
Silence when I leave again
I've left so many of the chores for him
Silence when I am at work
He's napping again
Silence when I come home
He needs a break
Silence when they eat dinner
He needs a break
Silence when they go to bed
He needs a break
Silence when they've been asleep
He needs a break
I am alone, pumping my arms through the ocean, day and night. A novel for a brain, narrated to the inside of my skull. A secret logbook that verifies to only me all the challenges, victories, guilts, fears, enthusiasm, ideas, goals, and interests.
One day, if I drown, will my mind be squished down into a bottle, corked, and washed up on a shore somewhere I never had the time or money to go?
Will the person who reads it, years, generations, ages from now, be the person I have been hoping for, the person who will see me, accept me, love who I was, so many years, generations, ages before?
Or will I float into the great pacific garbage patch and contribute my hopes and passions to the toxicity of the ocean.
I am a fucking warrior. A survivor. I have leaves in my hair, blood in my mouth, and holes in my clothes. I stand before you with a medal in my fist and more achievements to my name than most will earn in a lifetime. You FORGED ME. You left me out to die and I THRIVED.
And YOU. Have lost ALL CREDENCE in criticizing the state of me, of my scars, or my abilities.
Who are you? Loud aggressor, who not only haven't felt the fires I've walked through, but lit them, kindled them, and pushed me in?
You can't touch me.
I know who I am.
I turned my volume down. Curbed my language. Shifted my priorities. Paused myself. Squeezed into a dress made for a ghost. Who am I now?
You said I offended you even then. Why did you pretend? Or are you pretending now?
Who could love someone so big? So brash? So lonely? So ambitious? So much? There is so much of me. Who could possibly make room for me without modifications? Without trimming the fat of my passions, my humor, my interests, my voice, my attention, my thirst for little droplets of affection? Who could love me without telling me to tone down? Is it dangerous - that I could still grow?
I could swallow the world if it told me I was enough. Just enough. Not too much. The right amount.
I just want to be the right amount.
.
"Put me next to another - they've got gadgets and gizmos, all I have is a torso. A box with a pipe and a shutter; it heaves, it swells, and it sighs and it yells."
