Tell me a story about being a woman.
in this story, my seventh grade teacher tells me two boys keep calling around her classroom asking where i am and that i better make sure i tell them to stop harassing her. in this story, i am fourteen years old when my father’s boss gives me whiskey at his barbecue and then follows me into the bathroom to watch me pee.in this story, i run into both my seventh grade teacher and a school dean in the hallway. one of them holds up my arm and tells me to eat a burger; the other says, “leave her alone, she looks good like this.”
in this story, i am constantly torn between reining in the sway of my hips and letting them go fully tidal. in this story, i have no recollection of losing my virginity, but i still can’t use the word. in this story, i was the one who drank the second rum and coke so i still can’t use the word. in this story, i liked feeling wanted so i still can’t use the word. in this story, the word adds gravity to a weight i already struggle to carry, so i refuse the word. i deny the word. i am afraid my using the word cannot be justified so i still can’t use the fucking word.
in this story, i keep trying to find the smallest version of myself. i lose weight as though i am unclasping one russian doll to find a smaller one inside. in this story, one of my old teachers, and everyone’s favourite funny guy, asks me to send him a naked picture of myself. and i do. asks me to meet him at a hotel when i return home. and i don’t. in this story, his wife is so beautiful. in this story and every story, his wife is so damn beautiful. and i cannot for the life of me understand why that is not enough.
in this story, i am always trying to prove something. in this story, my sister’s boyfriend tries to kiss me, slips his hand inside the back of my jeans, asks me how it feels to be so pretty, and my sister loves him anyway. and my parents invite him around the house. and my body feels guilty. my body feels sorry for causing so much trouble.
in this story, my cousin and my sisters and my friend of four years ask me why i have to take so many pictures of myself. like my selfies have the capacity to cause great harm. i take photographs of myself in the hope that i will like them. they are an exercise in self-love and i am so tired of defending them.
in this story, i love other women and i want to run out into the rich night and kiss their magnificent beauty. i want to enlist whatever muscle i have into the task of protecting them. i want to hold them ‘til the past becomes a place they choose to stop living.
in this story, i look at my seven year old niece, in all of her brilliant beauty, all of her outstanding charm, and my heart becomes a fist banging on a door that no one will open.
snowghoul
titsay
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
2087
gummygunk
romaincrisis
