in another part of the world white is the grieving colour, not black.
For some animals maintaining eye contact and showing teeth is a sign of aggression, not joy and attentiveness.
We are not identical in how we show how we feel, so why is it so hard for me not to flinch when someone says forever like their mouth are shaping around something greater than both of us?
I am tired of the life around these bricks where men shout at me out from car windows the same words my lover softly speaks with his lips on my neck,
I am tired of stretching myself so I can easily reach all the sides of this box I am so desperately trying to fit.
The idea of wellness and love and recovery as if it were ten rules carved into stone in a cave by the first woman who ever got hurt so bad she thought she was all jagged pieces in a skin too tight.
IX: Thou shall not covet the wellness of another woman.
Were it better if I was quietly subdued to the idea of myself as something empty that would get filled over time, by time and with time?
Should I stop screaming into the world I have created for myself words such as “I can’t breathe, why can’t I breathe?!” and “This idea that we must remain hidden as dirty secrets unless we open ourselves up for scrutiny is bullshit and I wont have it!”
In another part of the world, white is the giving colour, not black.
For some healing means raging with the storm someone else planted inside them.
Come, follow me up on a mountain and we will create our own rules of grief and longing and safe.
And one day in the future they will write:
In another part of the world they don’t say forever they say as long as it takes, they say for as long as you need to, they say don’t worry we have you.