unshaven witch
It isn't something I thought I would ever consider. I don't think. But there I was, naked from the waist down, and painstakingly freshly shaven...and cold.
I sang on the walk home "I'm an unshaven witch....dirty and smelly....and I've got wild hair on my head, wild hair on my belly...."
She, the heavily make-uped and hairless beauty, was being kind and just warm enough...but polite I am tired of...and never respected much anyway. I'd rather people just really felt kindness and compassion. I wish they could just be honest and apologize when they cause hurt....ect ect ect...
This young woman zapped me with the laser again and again. The real pain was deeper. Symbolic.
We cannot stand to believe that we are animals. We have forgotten the plants' names, we have cut down the forests and murdered the people who lived there.
Life here lacks natural beauty. In it's place is concrete. And expensive real estate. How can we bear to look at anything that reminds us of what we have destroyed? So we all abide by strict social norms and we silently torture those who walk outside them. And we cut away any parts of ourselves that could resemble something untamed.
It was all over in minutes. She squirted cream into my palm and left the room for me to apply it to my traumatized puss. And I was done. I came into the lobby where all is so copacetic.
And because I am a little slow to register feelings, most especially traumatic ones, I found myself crying about something else hours later. The deepest pain is not being loved and accepted for who I am. It is familiar and terrible and has been caused by those whom I trusted and loved the most, the deepest.
And now, I do it to myself.
What happens to the puss when she can no longer grow a bush? When she is forever vulnerable and exposed? What happens when the earth has been scorched so hard that nothing can ever grow again? Does it forget that it ever grew anything? Does it become something else?
I know most people would never consider this, but I am the carrier for these things, these feelings. I was born, and there are a few of us out there, as the conduit for what most people cannot know, cannot feel, cannot experience. I act it out for them and they laugh or scoff or run away or throw stones. But I MUST act it out.
I am not my own. It is not my choice.
Nevermind if it is not safe. Nevermind if it holds me back from a certain success or certain love.
I sang on the walk home "I'm an unshaven witch....dirty and smelly....and I've got wild hair on my head, wild hair on my belly...."
She, the heavily make-uped and hairless beauty, was being kind and just warm enough...but polite I am tired of...and never respected much anyway. I'd rather people just really felt kindness and compassion. I wish they could just be honest and apologize when they cause hurt....ect ect ect...
This young woman zapped me with the laser again and again. The real pain was deeper. Symbolic.
We cannot stand to believe that we are animals. We have forgotten the plants' names, we have cut down the forests and murdered the people who lived there.
Life here lacks natural beauty. In it's place is concrete. And expensive real estate. How can we bear to look at anything that reminds us of what we have destroyed? So we all abide by strict social norms and we silently torture those who walk outside them. And we cut away any parts of ourselves that could resemble something untamed.
It was all over in minutes. She squirted cream into my palm and left the room for me to apply it to my traumatized puss. And I was done. I came into the lobby where all is so copacetic.
And because I am a little slow to register feelings, most especially traumatic ones, I found myself crying about something else hours later. The deepest pain is not being loved and accepted for who I am. It is familiar and terrible and has been caused by those whom I trusted and loved the most, the deepest.
And now, I do it to myself.
What happens to the puss when she can no longer grow a bush? When she is forever vulnerable and exposed? What happens when the earth has been scorched so hard that nothing can ever grow again? Does it forget that it ever grew anything? Does it become something else?
I know most people would never consider this, but I am the carrier for these things, these feelings. I was born, and there are a few of us out there, as the conduit for what most people cannot know, cannot feel, cannot experience. I act it out for them and they laugh or scoff or run away or throw stones. But I MUST act it out.
I am not my own. It is not my choice.
Nevermind if it is not safe. Nevermind if it holds me back from a certain success or certain love.
posted by hymenoptera's honey at 1:53 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home