Intimacy is not something given unwillingly; Know that. I give what I wish to. Parts of me seep out into existence with every stroke of a pen. You are looking into my window of domesticity.
Picture this: a car packed full of friends with loud music playing at night. I pull a borrowed hoodie closer to my chest, breathing in the scent of someone else. My phone warns me of low battery but I continue using it. The camera zooms out and you are viewing me through the car window. The TV screen holds your reflection like a mold and you sit still, waiting until you are unable to see yourself. This is what I am giving you. Please, take my privacy and discard it.
This art is not me but a version of me; an aversion to what I don’t deal with. Your stomach bruised from all the hits you take when I speak my words aloud. Do you feel breathless while reading? My absorbs oxygen, so you can never breathe too much, not when I’m around.
Think about separation. How do you feel when it begins? Separation begins without a choice. Separation begins with a bad decision. We’re right next to each other but nowhere near one another. We are states from each other but feel closer than that. I left you because I wanted to. I left you because I was told to. You left me because you were moving. It happens.
I wrap this blanket around you and say I hope you feel comfortable. This will take longer because you will not get a summarized version. See me lie next to my dog and stretch out my legs. See me cry into my thigh while sitting in a pale pink bathroom. See a family dinner where everyone starts screaming and has to go to their room; the anger not stopping. I shattered all the windows and left you there. Did you explore? Did you see what I left for you?
There’s a little more to my house than separation; there is also fragility. The glass hangs in the windows, the crack spreading but not breaking. The wires behind power outlets burn. Squirrels die in the vents and the air conditioner never truly works. Make sure you take your shoes off before coming in, because the floor creaks.
Picture this: a car packed full of friends with loud music playing at night. I pull a borrowed hoodie closer to my chest, breathing in the scent of someone else. My phone warns me of low battery but I continue using it. The camera zooms out and you are viewing me through the car window. The TV screen holds your reflection like a mold and you sit still, waiting until you are unable to see yourself. This is what I am giving you. Please, take my privacy and discard it.
This art is not me but a version of me; an aversion to what I don’t deal with. Your stomach bruised from all the hits you take when I speak my words aloud. Do you feel breathless while reading? My absorbs oxygen, so you can never breathe too much, not when I’m around.
Think about separation. How do you feel when it begins? Separation begins without a choice. Separation begins with a bad decision. We’re right next to each other but nowhere near one another. We are states from each other but feel closer than that. I left you because I wanted to. I left you because I was told to. You left me because you were moving. It happens.
I wrap this blanket around you and say I hope you feel comfortable. This will take longer because you will not get a summarized version. See me lie next to my dog and stretch out my legs. See me cry into my thigh while sitting in a pale pink bathroom. See a family dinner where everyone starts screaming and has to go to their room; the anger not stopping. I shattered all the windows and left you there. Did you explore? Did you see what I left for you?
There’s a little more to my house than separation; there is also fragility. The glass hangs in the windows, the crack spreading but not breaking. The wires behind power outlets burn. Squirrels die in the vents and the air conditioner never truly works. Make sure you take your shoes off before coming in, because the floor creaks.