Sometimes I wish I had a part of my body that I could know about
that wasn’t on the outside. I don’t mean my mouth
or my vagina – something private,
like one of those cysts full of teeth
that the doctors don’t find until you have cancer
and your body is all bad science project anyway.
Carrying it around under your clothes,
you blaze into high relief,
a light consuming itself that casts no shadow –
I want to have a secret self again,
but I want not to more.
My roommate uses silverware
to stir her breakfast on the stove.
I hate this.
“You know, that might scratch,”
I toss out, affecting nonchalance
while I listen to her scrape
her oatmeal into a bowl.
I’m not fooling anyone.
The pot isn’t even mine.
“What does it matter if it gets banged up?
It was only eight bucks.”
Okay but you have two options:
use the rubber spatula instead
and decades from now
your daughter will recite back to you
the name of every city you lived in
all the years you spent
looking for a home,
litany as well-washed
as the pot drip-drying on the counter,
or you can carve scratch after scratch
into a mass of scars
so that soon the cheap coating
will flake away,
exposing the pocked raw surface,
everything will stick and burn,
it’ll be ruined, you’ll throw it out –
two years, tops –
it’s not like skin,
it will never heal,
not the tiniest mark –
I’m sorry. It’s not my pot.
It doesn’t matter. I know.
In case you are a fan of same sex unions, weddings in general, or are just really itching to know what I look like (or my wife, as I haven’t posted a picture of her yet [she’s the adorable one in the suspenders]) here’s the promised wedding picture spam.
Best day of my life.
Okay, but see here’s the thing. I want all of you to understand this thing:
I posted these wedding photos because this was the most amazing day of my life. I’ve been married for about two months, and goddammit, it has been just the best, you know? Like, this woman, in these photographs? She’s incredible. She’s unreal. She’s kind and she’s thoughtful and she’s everything I never thought I deserved. She’s the woman who I get to spend the rest of my ridiculously lucky life with.
It’s so simple to me, to us.
But it’s so complicated to so much of the world. She and I can’t walk into the grocery store holding hands. I get tight-lipped when someone compliments my ring at work because I can’t determine if they are going to be “cool” with it or not. If they’ll report me for being “inappropriate” in our online survey. Again. My wife was fired from a job as a driver for a children’s occupational therapist because her boss saw us kiss at the mall— because she couldn’t have “that kind of person” around children. I walked myself down the aisle at my wedding because a church told my parents that it wasn’t possible for them to attend my wedding.
And we’ve had it so easy! Our lives have been blissfully carefree compared to so many. We have the most amazing friends and family and life is pretty fucking sweet.
But here’s the thing I wanted to tell you. This post I made, to try to just share my little square of happiness with my little square of the internet, has literally tens of thousands of notes. Tens of thousands. I’ve gained hundreds of followers and my inbox runneth over. And not a single message I’ve received, not a single reblog that I have been able to find, has had anything to say but amazing, beautiful, kind words of congratulations. No bullying. No trolling. No inappropriate offers or lewd remarks. Out of tens of thousands.
That’s not something I’m used to. It’s not something anyone in the LGBTQ community is used to.
Do you even get how amazing you are? You, the denizens of Tumblr. Do you understand that? I am so exceedingly proud of you, you wacky kids. You are all such incredible people, with such kind and open hearts, and I wish I could hug each and every one of your necks.
So if you are having any sort of rough day, please know that there is this tiny lesbian couple in northeast America who likes you just a whole lot, okay? You’ve overwhelmed us.
Thank you. We love you.
sometimes i have hope for things, people, stuff. all of the feels.
1. Offer the wolves your arm only from the elbow down. Leave tourniquet space. Do not offer them your calves. Do not offer them your side. Do not let them near your femoral artery, your jugular. Give them only your arm.
2. Wear chapstick when kissing the bomb.
3. Pretend you don’t know English.
4. Pretend you never met her.
5. Offer the bomb to the wolves. Offer the wolves to the zombies.
6. Only insert a clean knife into your chest. Rusty ones will cause tetanus. Or infection.
7. Don’t inhale.
8. Realize that this love was not your trainwreck, was not the truck that flattened you, was not your Waterloo, did not cause massive hemorrhaging from a rusty knife. That love is still to come.
9. Use a rusty knife to cut through most of the noose in a strategic place so that it breaks when your weight is on it.
10. Practice desperate pleas for attention, louder calls for help. Learn them in English, French, Spanish: May Day, Aidez-Moi, Ayúdame.
11. Don’t kiss trainwrecks. Don’t kiss knives. Don’t kiss.
12. Pretend you made up the zombies, and only superheroes exist.
13. Pretend there is no kryptonite.
14. Pretend there was no love so sweet that you would have died for it, pretend that it does not belong to someone else now, pretend like your heart depends on it because it does. Pretend there is no wreck — you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing. You do not need trains. You can fly. You are a superhero. And there is no kryptonite.15. Forget her name.
note to self: this. do this.
My creative writing professor told me to
stop writing about love. I asked him why
and he said, ‘because you have turned it
over and over in your hands, felt every
angle, every fault, every inch, every bruise.
You have ruined it for yourself.’ I spent
the next three weeks writing about
science and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole. How
much I wished I could sleep inside of that
nothingness without being annihilated.
What an exploding star would taste like.
If it would make our stomachs glow like
fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.
My creative writing professor told me that
those poems weren’t what he was looking
for. He tells me to stop writing about outer
space. Stop writing about science. Again,
I ask him why. Again, he says, ‘you have
ruined it for yourself.’ I spend the next
three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes
inside of other human beings, but the
foreclosure sign on my mother’s empty
womb tells me that women who give birth
know a different, more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I
am both talented and hopeless, that
everything I write is both visceral and
empty, a walking circus with no animals
inside, but a beautiful trapeze artist with
a broken hip selling popcorn in the
entrance way. He tells me to stop writing
about my mother. I don’t ask why. I pick
up my books and my notepad and I leave
his office with my war stories tucked
under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever
loved, like my mother’s baby
thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers,
our lovers, the empty space that we will
never be able to breathe in. We are all
carrying stones in our pockets and
tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness and we will
never stop writing about love, about black
holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms, inside the
chaos of the spaces in every poem I have
ever written. None of this is ruined. Do not
listen to them when they tell you that it is.