[[here are two pieces i wrote several years ago, condensed from their original length. i thought i might be able to combine them somehow but i haven't been able to work that out. maybe connect them with some statistics or more of a big-picture view somehow? any insight about that would be great. and even though this writing is old, it still feels vulnerable and i've had to work myself up to feeling like it's worth sharing and not just emo navelgazing journals. so really any feedback is appreciated! content warning: substance use + nonconsensual sex]]
shapes that pass in the night
we drank half a 30 rack and smoked at least a half pack between the late liquor store walk and the sun coming up.
when we sat on the bench where we'd painted the bedroom trim, i was wallowing and you said you wanted to help, held me, till your lips pressed my mouth free of words.
(in what moment did this become inevitable? this last beer, or the first? meeting your gaze in the warehouse kitchen? your drunk flirting, the night you don't remember?)
this night too is only pieces: chainsmoking and natty bo in my unfinished room, top floor of middle house, perched on the roof to watch dawn creep over the highway, wearing just jeans and a hoodie. i don't know how i lost my shirt.
we were too many beers in to be doing what we did. we crashed to the mattress tangled kissing and i fell into a dream: walking to a job interview at the neighborhood grocery. to apply i had to get fingered.
your hard soft body on mine, the sweetness of skin on skin, how we ache for this dance. suddenly your soft hard cock inside. if i wanted it, i hadn't said so, i wasn't ready and no protection. (you're lovely but i don't want your babies or infections.) what stops me from stopping you? caught in old patterns–drunken jumbles, wanting without understanding, not safe enough to speak.
they have said: cmon. please. you're nothing special. just hold still. shhh.
and they have said nothing as they put themselves inside me.
and they have said how much they missed me, how they love my squishy softness, i'm not like the other girls, i'm good enough, i deserve it.
and i’m disgusted with myself but i want and i want and i want to break myself apart and unlearn all the untruths they pressed upon me.
sometimes i think i ought to charge
lately, everywhere i go, all these men's eyes.
at east wind, there's a male majority, and the closest bar is 20 miles away. commies in the ozarks get lonely too. from out of the autumn night rain, i shuffled into the cramped sunnyside commons, bumbling with my bags and beer and too many coats, sloppy smiling, and i became meat. the freshest sort, from one or two communes over, but as yet unclaimed. a dozen people crammed in this smoky room, and i felt them mentally undress me, i saw them puff up against each other for a piece. but it was so far under the surface that maybe i'm the only one who saw, because they were really all so kind, not creepy at all, just starving.
could i blame them?
i don't know what to do with men's interest in me. i guess i'm a little flattered but mostly confused by it. they all like my dimpled smile, they like that i “think” and it's cute that i'm awkward, they always like it when i'm nervous.
do you think your presence caused this? your power?
my confusion takes the lead in the dance of the flirt. i don’t understand what’s happening, i thought we were friends. i didn't expect him to take it there.
how did i end up again against some him?
his room is its own circular structure, right by the dribbling creek, falling down, half whole, mysterious, broken. is this how you saw me? how did you see me at all?
i will entertain the conversation, i will drink his dandelion wine. i'm a sucker for the bottom of the barrel, let me keep going till i find it. finally i'll stop my babbling long enough for him to ask to kiss me.
thank you for asking.
for a moment everything feels sweet and giddy, almost innocent.
why not say yes? why not anything? why not see if i feel?
the first kiss is always the best. (maybe i am better nervous.)
start on the couch with our mouths until his hands start to wander, why not? he will want to move to the bed or turn out the light, why not? he will squeeze my tits like lemons, kiss suck pinch pull push hard harder hurts.
most of this will be uncomfortable.
i will go into a certain type of subspace: silent, riding, object, use me.
some things feel good but others i will just let happen.
what's the point in trying to correct his too tongued kissing, his hard hands?
what am i doing here, where have i gone?
what can i ask for that i will get?
he won't know whether i like pain or what kind. he will have already had his hands in me and will have bitten my meat until the blood vessels pop and the bruises flower up.
1 comment:
This doesn't feel at all like emo navel gazing; it feels urgent and, very sadly, timeless. I suspect you are right--there might be a braided essay brewing here. You might be able to connect these narratives with a third (or more) thread(s) whose connection might not be immediately obvious. Some braided essays include a combination of easily connectable threads with those that only eventually connect to the primary storyline. The question is whether you want to expand this work into something longer than flash because I also think each of these pieces can stand alone (or work side by side without any added glue).
Shapes in the Night feels very grounded in place/setting. I am easily able to see you and to feel the confusion/pain you experience as the word stealing kiss morphs into an attack on your trust and your body. The dream is devastating but excellent as is the list of the ways others have assessed/evaluated you. I love the title and the way the ending reveals what so many of us feel when we have been violated: shame. It's a powerful piece of writing that should be shared with a larger audience.
Sometimes I think I ought to charge is also powerful, and I especially appreciate that you don't pull punches with language or with imagery. I think you might be able to work on the opening paragraph a little for verb tense consistency/setting/time period.
In Esme Wang's essay "Toward a Pathology of the Possessed" the title hints at the most unexpected thread in what becomes a multi-strand braided piece about schizophrenia. We don't immediately understand why she incorporates an analysis of "The Exorcist," but when it becomes clear that demon possession is akin to being diagnosed with this disease, that it is as indiscriminate as the devil when it comes to gender and income, we very much appreciate the writer's vision--her willingness to show us the emotion she feels about her illness through the lens of a 1970s film. That's the key, I think, to figuring out what to use as the glue: tapping into the abstract emotion, identifying it, then looking for an analogy that evokes that emotion. Statistics are good. Review of literature/expert writing is good. And so is an obscure fairy tale or flora/fauna. It's really all about the connections you and only you can make, and I am confident (if you choose to expand these pieces into one larger essay) that you will find them.
Very Truly Yours,
Bridgette
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