Down In Me

They didn’t tell me what life would be like. Their breasts spoke to me in riddles. I would stare and note their attributes: C cups with large, dark brown areolas; pendulous, creamy, pliable. Drooping fried eggs, goose skin nature and distinct self-scent. I thought these breasts were universal. The way they’re all supposed to be. I felt ashamed that mine were small, taut and pink that day. I should have retained that sense of shame.

Misty sun floating in through the spaces in the blinds, casting bright stripes on the door frame and wall and the stack of books with no bookshelf. I think you think that I don’t know what’s really going on here. I think you think that I think more of myself than I really do. I think you think that I am smarter than I really am. That I’m well-read, bred, noble. I think you think that I can do what I can’t. I think you think about me. I think I think. I think. I. Think. Too much.

Today I feel fucked. Like after sex when you’re too drunk to say no, but probably wouldn’t have said no anyway just to have a cock to crash on, a hand to hold, it’s all the same. Come on. Like you’ve never. Hurt, muscles sore, orifices splayed, but instead of the complete relaxation of release, you’re frustrated, closed up, shot dead.

Sacrifice clarity for poetry. Sacrifice poetry for sanity. Sacrifice sanity for love. Sacrifice love for a loss of loneliness.

So apparently my mind can still be attractive, even if the rest of me isn’t. There’s a thin line between passionate and psycho, which some straddle well and others piss on. Smell the hot urine running down your thighs.

The sun shines a bright, steaming light on my insecurities, highlighting my shortcomings for you all. Get me the fucking picnic basket. I was born in that ultraviolet stream and I tan like you’ve never known.

Blood is a highly specialised circulating tissue
Blood is a song by a British Indie rock band
Blood is the fluid which circulates
Blood is an album released in 1991
Blood is the liquid containing red cells
Blood is the third episode of the second season
Blood is a bi-monthly medical journal
Blood is essential for life
Blood is a substance that nourishes; moistens
Blood is a 2001 album
Blood is the fluid connective tissue
Blood is a symbol of truth and loyalty
Blood is sacred oaths
Blood is a PC game
Blood is the red fluid in the body
Blood contains the power of life
Blood is the red liquor that circulates in bodies of animals
Loss of blood can indicate loss of love

I was created solar, seafaring, sanguineous. Carved from embattled men, rallying cries and rape. The product of colonial tiles set in the sun baked bones of a well-structured terrace. My salty tears were used to water the crops, raise the tides of the dusty river and pound the white linens clean. My earthly nature robbed; the moist black earth ripped from my lush, fertile grip. I’m rainforest flights of red blue-green, large-beaked and feathered. I decorate decay with lashings of emeralds and gold.

On a breezy night, on the veranda of a cabin perched on the side of a mountain, I lounged on a multicoloured hammock while an olive boy kissed me. He pretended to be shy and pressed his lips to mine, gently concealing his eagerness. His baby skin chin, baby smell, babyish. My baby fat cheeks, pale-plump squashed against his lean face. I inhaled coffee grass, baby hair, muddy mountain goats and slept with my hand in his.

I tried to recreate my hammock lain dreams some time later. I lay like the dead, fingers tightly interlocked over my breathing corpse stomach. Turkey vultures circled crying overhead like horny men. Within minutes, an intrepid sparrow took a shit on the side of my face. I ran into the house hollering. They wanted my body, swinging warm in the colourful threads, flanked by pines and common garden snakes.The next day I took the hammock down forever and recoiled from a beetle on my way back inside. I’m western concrete, earth-devouring and misspent youth.

I saw Ian Curtis crossing the street. I was on the bus to work and he crossed in front of it. It was a rainy-grey morning and he was wearing grey trousers and a black jacket with an upturned collar. His hair was shiny and dark and his skin was pale. He stared at the bus out of the corner of his eye. Ian Curtis was a little angry that the bus driver did not decelerate. The bus driver was a little angry that Ian Curtis was jaywalking. Ian Curtis should not have been crossing in the middle of the street, but he is Ian Curtis so you forgive him his indiscretions. The bus driver does not know who Ian Curtis is. The passengers in the first four seats on the bus do not know who Ian Curtis is. Two men at the back know who Ian Curtis is, but they were talking about girls so they didn’t see Ian Curtis cross the street. Ian Curtis stepped onto the pavement, but the hair of the lady in front of me blocked me from seeing what kind of shoes he was wearing. Ian Curtis continued to sideways-stare at the bus long after we passed him. I wanted to kiss Ian Curtis. I wanted to stop the bus and jump off. I wanted to run towards Ian Curtis and not look stupid. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted Ian Curtis to kiss me back. I wanted his head to be intact. I wanted his body to be warm. I wanted the part of his brain that sang to know me. I wanted his hands to snake down my back. I wanted Ian Curtis to pull me close. I stayed in my seat on the bus. Ian Curtis walked into the pound shop and disappeared from view.

For Blogging Against Disablism 2008

What do you say to someone who thinks you ‘deserve’ what ‘happened’ to you? Because it was caused, directly or otherwise, by something you did. Because you should have known better. Because you should have seen it coming.

What do you say to someone who thinks your genetic defect is “nature’s way of thinning the herd”? Because we can’t all be beautiful. Because we can’t all be healthy. Because we can all be Nietzschean philosophers.

What about someone who thinks your psychological problems are ‘made up’? Because they can’t see or touch them. Because you should have some self-control. Because how can you prove Munchausen’s?

What about someone who thinks your child is ‘cursed’ due to your past? Because you played fast and loose with your morals. Because you were disrespectful of yourself. Because children are but mere extensions of their parents.

What do you say to someone who stares unabashedly at your prosthetic limb? Because they have never seen one up close. Because they can’t imagine a worse fate befalling anyone. Because they pity you.

Maybe you say FUCK OFF, and you carry on. Maybe you say come here, let me educate you. Maybe you don’t say anything. Maybe you don’t speak. Maybe you stew.

Maybe you start to think they’re onto something. Because you’re forced into despair. Because you’re bludgeoned into submission. Because ignorance corrodes.

What do you say?