I long to write, about feeling, about living, about yearning, but I am stuck. I fail myself on the regular, unable to use the algorithms of language to translate the mish-mash of emotion twirling themselves around in my belly into anything comprehensible.
I want to be able to use words to reach out, connect to, touch others. I fail. Repeatedly. What is left is complex isolation and an inability to articulate even the most basic of needs: I am thirsty. I haven't had a drink of water that has nourished me in a long time.
How do I get up to get the glass?
I stand
butt naked
in my house
(for my house
is the earth)
Tits raised
to the ceiling
(sky)
Aware that
they can see -
that they
pull their
eyes out (both in
awe of and in shock
at)
The site of a
brown woman
that is
un-ash
amedly
her. self.
Three apexes
(one inverted -that
one at its own
APEX)
will turn them on
their head.
Turn them mad.
Tis 'bout time
the tables turned.
I remember
a time
where
touching
them (men)
held all
its allure
in it being
a forbidden
fruit
when it
was the role
of all the
women (in
me and
before me)
to be seen
as coy, shy,
innocent.
I was not al-
lowed to feel
the vivacious
raw of my un-
becoming
lest it
threaten
their ‘sanc-
tity’
Fuck
(later I
will fuck)
their
sanctity.
The only
sanctity
they hold
is the
remnance
of what
they took
from me
(all the
me's)
when they
pillaged the
belly of the
holy
mother.
Not
knowing
that her
Godliness
is the tinder
that trans-
forms me
into a
phoenix
that will
no longer
wait for
the feast
to be laid
out (and
her name
called)
but will
just
eat.
Lover,
through the
melancholy in
my eyes you
would think it
possible for me
to forget
The sensation
of your tongue
on the hair
at the juncture
of my arm (pit)
Or the feel of
your alive
fingers taut
around my waist
Moving me,
moulding me,
with
sudden urgency
to accommodate
the song you sing.
No! The language
you speak.
The
language I first
thought
you spoke with
your tongue.
Then listened
closer and learnt
that you spoke it
with your
being.
You, lover -
intuit, inscribe,
know -
the ancient truths
of (my) body like
a pilgrim
returning home.
Say, lover.
Are you not
a lover, but
a witch
instead?
Little formed
limbs and hearts
the size of
jelly beans
begin to beat
inside my body,
longing to come
into existence
into a life, they
know was made
specially for them.
But.
I stop them in
their tracks.
I say:
This is not
a life that
you deserve.
One of hearts
split into a
thousand pieces
a million times
over. Inevitably.
The breaking in
of your skull
regularly because
the world tells
you that you can
not - ever - be
enough.
The hollowness
in you brain
awarded to you
by the lottery
of chemistry.
A life of
accidents
and
chance.
No.
You don't
deserve this.
You deserve
so much more:
Eternity.
I lie bare
on my back
buttocks
kissing the
sand in
two separate
and sensual
places
My knees
spread open
just wide
enough to
let
the glory
of my
vulva
shine out
into
the world:
that shuns
it,
forbids it
de
nies
its
existence.
It glows,
gloriously,
as its
fo-
lds
yield to
the invisible
warmth and
caress of the
sun.
It comes
alive
and all
of existence
comes
to attention
at its
center.
This
is
where life
has always
begun
and where
pleasure
is eternal
like the
dying of
the day
sun to
the
holiest
of
holies
is only a
promise of
a new
beginning.
