- i want to say i believe you when you say you’ll come back for me, but i’m a girl who is like grit and not sand. what would you be coming back for?
- my body can be an entire universe and yet a sticky disconnect of things that are fragile and fickle on the days that i cannot find my centre/the material of life overwhelms me. my neck turns into the solid of mahogany and my vision becomes the stars that i do not know exist yet
- i admired my body these past few days more than i’ve ever admired it in years
- i am not where i thought i’d be at almost-twenty-three but i’m everywhere i need to be
- i take my time with books because it is like watching a painting unfolding on a canvas. i come to admire each stroke, lines that become the most grand shade of important stick to wherever it is things like that process in me. sometimes i cling to a page over and over until it sinks into the blue of my veins and somehow i grow, branch into it. it ends and i stack onto a bookshelf. i’ll never remember what it was really about, just how it made me feel.
- do you know how much of what we do is spectatorship? how many things we watch but do not really see? how little we know to be true, how most of what we do is an amalgamation of what we’d like to be or do and how that thing, that object makes us feel?
- i spent the weekend in between my broken sleep trying to figure out if i’ve ever really told the truth
- and then i remember that everything we experience, think, know, believe to be is real
- and then the only thing that can be true is the process of honesty
- so i often write to him like it is a confessional, this is not for a reaction but the bearing of things i cannot weight anymore against the curve of my spine. there are parts of me at stake now, my heart will cave in against itself
- i do not want to look like the fact that most people of colour come from torn apart, broken, wounded, stolen things, but i do. it maybe the green turned brooding hazel in my eyes, or the way my stomach knots when white men look at me. i have worn my country in my hair, a family tree entangled between my thighs and sometimes my skin stays this shade of sinking (maybe drowning) yellow because there isn’t enough sun here to feed my melanin
- last night i tell him all the things i am: how the rebel in me is intuitive, i love me too much to be a woman of convention or the static of fixed culture where it turns me into less than a human being/creation by the grace of God, and all the things i am not: the spaces i do not fit in, the woman that is not a tick box or an imagined being of a thing to love
- but i’m too afraid to ask a question that i know silence and time and other women’s bodies will begin to fill eventually, i am nothing to come back for.
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ibleedwhilebecoming said:
Your honesty speaks to my heart, yet it is so sad and I’m sending you a hug from a distance. You are a gifted writer; when I was led to your tumblr site, I was blown away by your writing and how much of it I could relate to. Antiway, much love:)
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