be whatever you choose to make yourself. create; write; heal; love. when the worst comes, hold your head high and remember you are exalted. court darkness, embrace death, and walk out again, carrying springtime in your train and bringing light to all you touch. make home wherever you go. when the night is long and cold and dark, do not fear: woman of fire, you have only to light a candle.
Physics says: go to sleep. Of course
you’re tired. Every atom in you
has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
nonstop from mitosis to now.
Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.
Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.
Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,
Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so
Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town
History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.
How many chances do you give someone you’re dating who occasionally says awful things? My benchmark for ‘awful’ is pretty low in most people’s eyes, I’m a self-confessed strident intersectional feminist. I think I’m letting myself down by not kicking him to the curb straight away, even if I do…
You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
I bought a skirt in the mall this afternoon. This skirt.
It’s messing with my head a little bit. I haven’t bought bottoms in the mall since high school, I don’t think. My hips and thighs are by far the biggest part of me, which is saying something because I’m pretty big all over.
Maybe it’s just because I’m feeling adrift these days in general, but suddenly having access to Mall Skirt is confusing. I expected that I’d feel the rush I used to, the thrill of passing as a ‘normal’-sized person when smaller people would ask me where my clothes came from, but I didn’t. I feel a bit guilty about buying it, actually. And I don’t mean guilty for any of the social or environmental concerns that a person can reasonably have when they’re buying clothes in the mall. I felt guilty because I was buying something at a straight-sized store that I had no right to. Because I’m obligated to spend an extra $25 on everything at a place that sells plus-size pants and skirts because, you know, that’s the tax on being a fatass or because it’s a show of solidarity to keep spending that extra $25 on everything.
Or, you know, the days are getting shorter and my brain’s not at its best. High possibility of that.