my relationship with my body is complicated and constantly fluctuating. consider this my first step toward autonomy and reclamation. here is a poem about it (tw for sexual assault):
you’re standing in the middle of a corn field and a man tells you to scream before it’s over. you’re running out of time, sweat piles on top of your body, and you want to scream, want to please him,
do anything to please him,
but you can’t.
your mother beats at you, your father joins in. they are molding you into a quieter shape, a better shape. one they can show to their friends, say look at our good and well behaved child.
look how well she welcomes abuse.
you blink twice when you swear, the words
are foreign in your mouth,
it makes you uncomfortable to think about.
raised to be prim, proper and polite with a capital P.
to be quiet.
afraid of your own body, you sold it to the first man
who looked at you with lust. it was taken from you
at an early age, nonetheless,
what’s a stranger’s piece inside of you (drunken and crying)
compared to you, a preteen
(drunken and crying)?
after he finishes, he tells you that you smell like his ex girlfriend, asks if he could call you Christine,
and hold you as if You were her?
you’re bleeding from your lip, you’ve been biting it to keep your lessons from your childhood.
you gave yourself different names in bed,
moaned when they touched You,
even when it felt like nothing.
you don’t have a word for what he does to You, but he fucks you like he means it, really means it,
and reminds you you’re his whore.
it feels right with his hands around your neck,
because they’ve always
held their hands
around your neck.
la petite mort, not as you would understand the expression
“the brief loss
but a little death nonetheless.
your grandmother gives you two pieces of advice:
one— a man should know you neck up, but never neck Down. fact.
two— a man should always believe he was your second Ever. fact.
you become an actor, a porn star,
script says: fuck me like you mean it,
script says: fuck my brains out,
script says: fuck me til i can’t walk straight.
script says: (with rising feeling)
hurt me, hurt me, hurt me!
you cave in, bury the truth under fucking and fucking and fucking and fucking—
left your body just as they entered it.
there’s different types of crazy—five.
the emotionally unstable are better in bed.
you don’t admit to being all five types.
men don’t want to hear this when you’re naked,
they want to hear you moan, to lick the sweat
off of your breasts and that they’re the second
to ever fill you.
you don’t have a word for what he does to you, but he’s given you a word for yourself: monster. you deserve it, and you’ve always deserved it.
gas lights the fireplace and you’re burning, twenty one and burning, always burning. this hell you’ve created by dating the architect who lives in his car.
you’re nineteen, can’t walk straight.
a man with ice blue eyes leads you
into a bathroom
as you dig your heels
into the grooved hardwood floor, sticky with spilled alcohol.
nervous laughter spills from you
as he forces you to your knees
and puts himself inside of you,
so that you don’t really say no,
you tell your sister and she says
men are disgusting,
but you never speak of it again.
you’re twenty one,
in a relationship with another, you say no,
but your pants are off
and this time,
he’s the one laughing.
stops speaking to you
for 24 hours
for allowing this to happen.
you’re twenty two,
in a new relationship.
his eyes are green, you call him broccoli. he stops when you leave.
he kisses only after asking.
still, you stop almost always.
say im ruined almost always.
he holds you, almost always
for the hundredth time.
you don’t swear. you don’t say no. you lay still and think of England.
you’re standing in a cornfield and the man from before is still telling you to scream like you mean it. you scream, but no noise comes out this time. it may be due to his hands around your neck, or they’re yours, and they’ve always been yours.
how can you write about fucking,
—yes fucking, not sex, not making love—
when you can’t even fuck your lover
like you mean it?
when you can’t even fuck them