Tag: woman

The Story Doesn’t Speak Back

I am an intoxicating idea,

But a dizzying reality,

Some untamable force people want with two hands,

But have no idea how to hold on.

 

I wonder if I am a tall tale in someone else’s narrative–

Some summer camp personified,

The girl with red hair and pretty words.

I wonder if they gawk at how all of me is on fire.

Perhaps I am the cautionary tale of saying too much,

How my mouth became Pandora’s box, and all my truths have taken on lives of their own.

Maybe my admissions are Greek tragedies some other storyteller now claims.

No girl gets to be the author and the muse–

She is always the object, even in her own stories.

Because the fiction is better than the female.

The story doesn’t speak back.

It cannot cry, cannot disappoint.

They are just words, after all.

 

And the words are better than the rest of the woman,

How you can take them with you after you leave–

The lightest library held in your heart.

 

You return for my words like they are paradise,

But your hometown is elsewhere.

Somewhere more tap water than tequila.

There, in your hometown, my affirmations cradle your loneliness.  They are your lullaby, although you never tell me that.

There, you tell stories about me until they run out.

Until you return to me just long enough for your hands to slip and your granola house calls your name.

And then, you are gone.

Another tourist disguised as an immigrant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On pain

Our relationship to pain– how we react and respond to it– changes everything.

This idea ruminated in my mind from the moment I saw it.  My thoughts latched onto this because I don’t have a healthy relationship to pain.  I avoid it at all costs until I come into contact with it.  Once agony and I collide, I can’t let go.  My stubborn perseverance encourages me that there’s some prize for enduring the most pain.  It’s a fool’s prize– the one given to marginalized people as an incentive for their silence.

But pain is a cat burglar.  Denying it entry only motivates it to break a window, infiltrate a vent, wind itself inside a hiding place just long enough to jump out and scare you when you’ve convinced yourself pain is long gone.

What if I were open to aching?  What if I acknowledged the thief as it entered?  These aren’t solutions.  Then again, these days, I’m no longer in search of the answers.  I just want to ask better questions.  We weld questions so complicated that the simplest answers become out of reach.

For now, all I can do is become a doorway and witness to my own discomfort.  I seize my right to arrest my pain by acknowledging and addressing it.  I’ve spent too long being a bystander in my own suffering.