shebreathes's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- undefined what if a conversation turns you on? and i don't know what on is. i don't know what these words mean. who i am when i'm standing here and you're looking at me? like when i was at the bus stop waiting for my bus. and there were men all around. i was distinctly girl. distinctly tits and ass. distinctly prey. they kept looking at me with these hungry eyes and i stood behind a pole to hide. so what is on? what does it mean for me to be turned on? is this about my cunt getting swollen and wet? is this about my brain? my brain buzz buzzing around. stretching. opening. clicking. click clicking. like these words. like these so called identities that i hold. because yeah, i am girl. i am. and i like it. i like it and i'm glad to be a she. but a lot of what makes me a girl is the way i'm treated. a lot of what makes me a girl is the hey baby and the hey sweetheart what's your name? what if i lie and i make up a name and i smile pretty while i'm trying to get my fucking keys to open the door and go away go away go away? when do i like it? when do i want it? what is this desire? what if i think you're really sexy but i don't want to have sex with you? what if i what i want, what i really honestly want, is to have another one of those conversations that i like so much? are you gonna take that as an insult? do you think if i wear slutty dresses and bat my eyelashes that i owe you something? because it fucking don't. where does the girl i am meet the boy i am? where does slut become survivor? where does queer become queerer? and who am i? that was always the question. who am i when i'm twelve years old and i've got my grandfather's tongue in my mouth? am i still erin? or am i a victim of childhood incestuous sexual assault? when he's working his tongue inside my mouth am i still a writer? do i still have a crush on moulder from the x-files? am i still a twelve year old girl? where does rebellion become submission? where does grief become anger? can you pinpoint the moment when pain turns into pleasure? where does my masochism become my self injury? when does healthy turn unhealthy? and should they have kept me in there? locked up? unable to see the sky? tell me, is that healthy? no reflection staring back at you when you brush your teeth for the fourth time that day. playing soccer with six male patients and two male staff and wondering can they smell my bloody cunt? where does shame become pride? where does wrong become right? when i was little i understood that my family was not like other families. we were unconventional hippies and we lived in a small town. and my parents were always under fire because my dad's long hair and my mom's phd suggested to my classmates and their parents that my parents couldn't raise us right. so i said they were perfect. i told everyone just how well adjusted i was. i never complained about my parents like the other kids because i knew it wasn't safe to. my parents were different and that meant they had to be better than good at raising us. somehow i understood that at such a young age. so i did not tell my friends about the incest with my grandfather. not that i knew it was incest. not that i understood what was happening. but i remember thinking maybe i should say something and then hitting that wall of no you'd better not. i guess the point to all of this is that i don't know anymore. there is no fixed definition for who i am. you can't look me up in the dictionary and find yourself a nice definition. i am all over the place. i am girl and i am boy and you can't see that yet and i know that. i am grrrl and i am slut and don't fucking touch me. just don't touch me. i see animals crossing highways and i understand that they are breaking the rules just like i am when i go for a walk alone at three am. and it can end in roadkill or rape but sometimes it feels so good to just say fuck it all maybe i'm invincible. i don't want to be right anymore. i don't want to have the answers in my pockets ready just in case. the guilt of this body and this history does not wash off with soap and water and i understand now that it shouldn't. it just shouldn't. there are some things that just are and my job here is to make space for other stories to ring out just as loud as my own. sometimes it's my job to scream and other times i need to be quiet and let others do the screaming. sometimes i'm the grrrl on her period in a psych ward. sometimes i have an unrequited crush on a suicidal boy. sometimes i'm the strong one who just survives it all somehow. and sometimes i am weak. because sometimes i need to be weak. and sometimes i am wrong, because sometimes i need to be wrong. and sometimes i just don't know and i know it doesn't matter. right now, i don't want to be defined. 12:49 am - July 29, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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