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For 6 months last year
I stopped wearing a bra. After 11 years of wearing a bra almost every single day, I starting pulling my shirts and dresses over a completely bare upper half: No lifting, uncomfortable straps. For 6 months I did this. Some context? I was in a state of perpetual stress, and wanted to test a theory: That wildness was a quality that I could inject into a personality that was otherwise over-analytic and list-obsessed. My spirit was searching. Vibrations of your voice were
felt from my gestation, creating the first song between us. The smile in your eyes greets me, as I lay on your chest and inhaled your scent an echo of our first note. You share stories of relatives known only through memories. At the age of three, you got into some moonshine and ran through the yard, stick in hand and mind in flight. My sister's beauty lies in a reserved comfort,
and no one in my family stands for her humour, the one place where she encourages no sibling rivalry, as the chunk of us bear the mark of a god on our faces; We are cacti, imprisoning joy in our ragged cheeks, and never the angels of good cheer to a dreary family. My sister never begins each day without pulling strings, with which she creates sunrise within our hearts; Even while disaster steadily knocks on our doors, She reels out peals and rolls of raucous laughter and sunset hides in the forest of its birth. And you watch her, keenly
Going from one to another Seeking for advice on how to navigate the cold and unwelcoming waters ahead of her Others had gone and found their different ways to the other side Through these same waters But she was still dithering Unsure and unwilling to take the dive Watching others before and behind her, go on, before her Through the cold, unwelcoming waters Trigger Warning: death and blood
Stephanie sat cross-legged in the standing shower aboard the VIKENGRASS. The water sprinkled over her body as she kept her eyes closed, trying to meditate and alleviate the pain that came on this day every year. It was the anniversary of the accident that took the lives of both of her parents, having her leg and finger amputated, along with permanently deafening her. All because their self-driving car stopped working and drifted into oncoming traffic. She opened her eyes to be met with darkness, alarming her. The lights came back on in a moment, and the room shook. Stephanie quickly stood up and turned off the water, jumping out of the shower and drying herself off. She grabbed her clothes and slipped them on, returning to her living quarters as soon as she could. The VIKENGRASS shuttered and groaned as explosions rocked the inner hull. The lights in the hallway dimmed, flickering subsequently with the detonations. The crew scrambled from their living quarters as sirens blared overhead, red lights flashing along the tops of the black walls. It was against protocol to be woken this way, as a member aboard the bridge was designated to wake them, preparing the entire crew to deal with the emergency. They tell me to be at peace.
They don’t notice that I am in pieces. Regardless of the blood that drips from my lips. Regardless of the bruises that shackle my wrists. They wrestle control from bloodied fingers, and crack my knees against the floor. They wish to strip me of my strength, and trap me in my voice. They wish for me to cease, gagging me with dirtied money. They think it will stop me, stuffed mouth unable to speak. Her shoes were made in the year 1977. They belonged to her grandmother when she was
a young woman. They were wingtip derby dress shoes in a size 8-and-a-half with a very slight heel. She’d been granted permission to wear them to work after filing a special request with her employer. She’d made a very thorough case for the shoes. They were in beautiful shape, closed-toed, and sturdy. They’d made her bring them in to prove that she could sprint down the hallway in them. The shoes were made from alligator skin, her favorite animal, said to still roam free in the half-drowned Atlantis that remained of the Southeastern American wilds, where her extended family had once lived, just outside of Miami – what the shoes lacked in utility, they made up for in history. Tip-tack-tip-tack, the shoes used to go, smacking tiles as she walked back and forth across her grandad’s deck like America’s Next Top Model. Now they made almost no sound at all, just a faint thup-thup-thup. Principal Ndongo’s allowance of the shoes hinged on the condition that they be appropriately dampened – several spaces in the facility still had hard, lacquered floor, namely the cafeteria and gym areas. She paced around the empty facility, poking her head into all the rooms that would be, any time now, full of human beings. During her extensive training, she’d participated in several full-occupancy armed safety drills, but those always struck her as falsely urgent, bordering on ridiculous. They were meant to further complicate an already fabricated scenario, like trying to catch someone off-guard while playing Simon Says. Simon Says get the fuck down, now, now, now. I find redemption in the contours of your back
Weighing heavy on the breadth of your shoulders A map to vengeance, peace, freedom written in the notches of your spine Each freckle I come across a landmark, a victory I find hope in your hands Sprinkled throughout the callouses A warm cradle for actions, consequences, victory Found in the cup of your palms Each finger slots into mine A safety net, a promise Pass the salt. Say grace at the dinner table. Say this could be something.
We eat quietly by the window under sunbeams, listening to the music of a songbird’s serenade. I can’t remember the last time we had a meal like this, together and yet still so alone. If you could speak to me for the first time, what would you say? Do you want to light the candles? I ask, and you shake your head. They’re just there for decoration. Of course they are. The food is stale. Still, I eat because you have made it. This cooking, though unappetizing, is one of the purest forms of love. I will not turn it into one of shame. When we finish, I notice the chipped edge of your plate. Even in this silence we share it screams, I am here. I am lived in. A smile spreads across my lips, thin and wry. Today has been good to us. Neither do I belong to those fetters of fragility
furled around my feet, nor do I belong to the shallowly strength depicted by utter superficiality; I am the daughter of clay, and of callosity, crafted with the competence of being fragile and fortitudinous all at once. |
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