A Universe of Holes
Inside and outside
and upside down now
all of the ways which I allowed myself to be
twisted and turned
because I thought that’s what he wanted,
what they wanted,
all, in fact, they want at all.
I didn’t know how to speak,
how to move,
in a way that was me.
Whose legs are these?
Why have I given them over?
He broke inside or did I allow it,
and what does forgiveness mean
if it’s for two people?
How does healing begin?
When you’re all alone.
The girls they give they give they give
and the hole between our legs grows larger.
From the many men
and the vast universe they leave behind
Because they always do.
A to B equals Alone.
If I could do it over,
would I choose to go back?
Could I erase the road map,
that got me from A to B?
It’s the path that it took to get you there,
that’s what they always say.
But how many A to B and A to B and A to B
before you’re wondering where Z went to hide?
We blame ourselves, we do as women,
yet maybe it’s time to turn the sword.
Are we tired of stabbing ourselves? What about the men who brought it?
When it became easier to give in
than repeating the no
realizing the heaviness of sleep was setting in.
It’s just as much their fault and why are we afraid to say so?
They take us when we ask them not to,
they push and push and basically we all just
want to be left alone.
That’s how it works.
They always leave and we always want to be left alone.
So my question to you, to me, to us,
is do we just give them what they want so we can be left alone?
Uncovering the covers
the morning after.
When the sun is up
And we’re supposed to laugh.
With our friends,
the next day,
it’s so funny,
It’s so funny so funny but it never was funny until we really owned it.
That we were in charge. That we were the queens. That we wanted it
on the couch,
Or we didn’t want it at all.
The power play.
When we began to own it, real or not, aware or not,
the tables shifted and we knew.
The tall one grew taller and the short one filled out.
And the talks over breakfast involved no sun.
Like an animal he fucks me
and I like it.
Like the rawness and the badness until I don’t like it anymore.
Until the names actually hurt
and the fun and playfulness has turned black.
It’s the intensity
To let off some
of this built up steam.
It’s the aggression
The roughness born
from your discomfort
in being a man.
Prose piece — Thinking to not think about it
Thinking about sex is something we never want to do as women. Maybe some do, I don’t. Talking about it, is really great. Having it, is a whole other story.
When we think about what we think about sex we can know more about ourselves and how we feel and our outlooks on the world.
As we toss and turn in our heads it make me wonder: do I do it because I want to, or because he wants me to?
What is an amount I can handle, put up with, and when do I say no?
And if it’s your boyfriend, the one you’ve chosen to be with, are you ever allowed to say no?
This is something I think about how I don’t want to think about.
I wonder why we feel we must be validated? Why a man’s approval and a man’s love is something we always search for. I wonder how and if that may come from my mother—who always had a man, who was lonely when she was single, who is at the same time power and aggression and loneliness and weakness. Did she feel it all? What made her lonely and has she finally learned that it’s never going be perfect? Pick what you will and the rest will follow.
Now as a woman, no longer a girl with the need to party and be seen, be out and be loud and be late and conquer a man at a bar by going home with him. It didn’t take me long to learn that the night you go home means you’ll never get him long term. Men respect women who respect themselves. Women respect men who respect themselves.
The man I am with now respects me, very much so. Does he respect himself, I wonder. Does he respect himself? That worries me, because if he doesn’t how can I stay? In a time an moment and everyday practice of trying to love and respect this body, after so many years of giving it away. Hating it in the mirror and then hoping from someone else to love it. And if the man now loves my body, I wonder how I will when he is gone. Because they always leave don’t they? I don’t want to believe it. I am afraid that I am going to lose him just so I may validate my own beliefs and fears—that he will leave and part of me will be happy so that I can “yep, they always leave don’t they.” That’s not true. This one won’t. Don’t push him away and for once in your life don’t try so hard to be right but instead celebrate the fact that you are wrong. That your beliefs are wrong. That this one you can “give” to, give away to.