I never liked my hands.
My fingers too long and too thin,
palms too big, a far cry from a dainty fist.
I never liked my hands,
but I marvel at hers.
Beautiful fingers, so long and thin.
Sturdy palms and mighty little fists.
Oh I could love my hands,
to appreciate hers.
I never liked my chin…
but I marvel at hers…
I could love myself
to better appreciate her.
He says he wants to discuss the real issues.
He wants conversation;
back and forth banter.
But when when I open my mouth
talking stops being fun.
I know what he wants is a puppet
who repeats his words
in a higher register.
He wants to fold me up
and fit me in his pocket.
My ideas shouldn’t be larger
than the palm of his hand.
But I speak from my chest
and my voice is too deep
to encourage friendly discourse.
He only wants my passion
when it is fanning the flames of his own.
I am not the clay for him to mold,
and what good is a toy
with thoughts of its own.
My mother in law said
she never met a happy baby
from a miserable mother.
She said to guard my peace
because baby’s demeanor
is based off me.
My child works her lungs
with ease, how she can scream.
She is full of fire and full of steam,
her demeanor is based off me.
I opened a portal with my body
and signed a contract with
my breath, my flesh and my blood.
And I know now,
you are the first I’ve ever loved.
I haven’t been able to find my peace,
but I promise to help you
never lose yours.
I am carrying a fetus,
and the distinct burden of knowledge
that I will have had more rights
to bodily autonomy
than the daughter born of me.
And the weight is heavy.
The wait is heavy.
I told my sisters;
when a man tells you how he feels about you,
you better listen.
To complete the lesson I spent 8 years deaf.
He told me his infidelities,
proving he was innocent now, falsely accused.
He said he has accepted every
mistake he has ever made, long before I knew.
He has already accepted,
whether I stay or whether I go and calls it “growth”.
I think he thinks I’m weak.
When I only ever wanted to be special.
I just wanted to be—
loved.
Enough.
And now he sees my body
as a sacrifice; my womb a lamb for slaughter
the fool carrying his child.
“In the last seven days how many times have you felt;
Little interest or pleasure in activities?
Hopeless, down or depressed?
Bad about yourself or that you are a failure?”
And I can’t tell the truth to save my life.
But now I have the burden of pumping a fetus
jam packed, full of cortisol.
My mouth keeps moving, in the same tired fashion:
“Not at all.”
If I’m not careful,
I may begin to love myself
in the ways I’ve never been brave enough
to allow someone else to do.
I may even forgive
the lies I’ve told,
and understand their necessity.
I may feel the breadth
of all the pain I’ve ever held onto,
and choose to set it free.
I may see my moleholes
for the mountains they are,
and count my victories.
If I don’t care to scrutinize,
I may commit the sin
of forgetting
to catalogue every imperfection.
I may see beauty in the mirror,
and cherish holding her near.
If I’m not careful,
to always stoke the fire
it could die down to an ember.
Peace could begin
to creep it’s way in,
if I’m not careful
I could be happy.
I looked into her eyes
and I wanted to take her life.
And maybe if she hadn’t been in a mirror,
being kind to her, would have been easier.
But I still can’t help but think,
her death would have been
the kindest thing.
When I was 7 years old
I heard a pastor say
that God knows your destiny
and He knows your fate.
So in my heart it was fact,
I was going to Hell one day.
When I was 10 years old,
I heard my grandfather say
that God loves everyone,
but He certainly hates fags.
So in my heart it was fact,
I was going to Hell one day.
When I was 14 years old,
I heard my Mother say,
young girls should be chaste
and chase impure thoughts away.
So in my heart it was fact,
I was going to Hell one day.
When I was 17 years old,
a pastor received a vision on my behalf.
There was a bar code on my neck
and a voice echoed in an empty room,
“This one is spoken for.”
And in my heart it was fact,
the devil laid his claim.
So I was going to hell one day.
When I was 22 years old,
I spurned the church
and my Mother’s God.
But in my heart, the fact remains.
I am going to hell one day.
Alex is Languid 