I don’t always distribute unfinished poetry about podcasts but when I do, it’s poetry about The Penumbra.
Capitalism has found out about body positivity– I’m sure y’all’ve noticed:
A body for everybody.
#Lose hate not weight.
It’s everywhere. Self-love and a healthy relationship with food are only one purchase away!
You think these things sound familiar. You think it might be nice to fall for it. You think these people are goddamn fools if they think I’m going to even consider loving a thing that has been trying to kill me since the day I was born.
You think of your mother. You think of her taste in men.
You look at your body again and you think maybe I can be tricked into loving you after all.
This kind of abuse runs in families anyway.
You walk back into my office.
Entire universes live and die on the fingertips of choice.
“I feel like an asshole–”
I stop breathing. Look you in the eye for the first time in a year smell the warm denim jacket skin unscented soap crushed lavender from across the room. In the winter of your pause I am in suspended animation living the memory of my arms around your perfect waist, soft, pulling you back into bed.
You aren’t looking at me.
I’m looking past every time you said I was something that could be fixed and into a future where kickstart apologies sputter into something bruised burning wilted growing up out of ashes the way forests do after wildfires.
“– I didn’t need that appointment after all.”
The splitsecond hairsbreadth moment passes.
“If” is the biggest word in the English language.
i don’t know whether heartbreak will ever stop tasting
like ripe white peaches ice cold in summer
soft fruitskin popping, giving under my teeth
meat catching between them and dripping
sticky pulses down my chin and fingers.
i pity anyone who has ever lost me.
Death made me
a little giddy i’ll confess
brushing past on the ballroom floor, an
accidental meeting beneath
lead crystalglass refractions,
glance that i can’t
be bothered to return because
She left me
the courage to kiss
Listen to me you godless, lying crypt-keeper-looking, knock-off Gucci handbag with your outdated degree and an undeserved sense of smug superiority: you are a living beacon of shame. (Did you know that if you walk around looking like you stepped in dog feces all the time your face is going to stick that way? Or has it already stuck that way, and that’s why you resemble a livid corpse?) You are a greedy and meretricious worm incapable of admitting the truth or others’ humanity. Your friends ought to be ashamed to associate with you. Your ancestors in the halls of the dead are ashamed that their line has produced such a foul pustule as yourself. As you have no shame I don’t expect you to feel a thing (except perhaps cold and narcissistic outrage that someone has the nerve, to be honest about you) but that hardly matters.
You will henceforth experience perpetual inconvenience. Visceral discomfort since you cannot experience its emotional equivalent. May your punishment only begin with this:
- May every dog you come near or try to pet shy away from you in fear.
- May you always suspect that your friends’ smiles are disingenuous.
- May you always run out of toilet paper when you have explosive diarrhea in public.
- May you walk around with the sensation of popcorn kernels stuck into your gums but never find relief.
- May you never live without a sense of fear of losing your money.
- May you never be able to identify the stench of body odor that follows you everywhere as yourself.
- May you forever be seen as the truth of what you are even when your words and expression try to hide it.
- May every meal you ever prepare, serve, or receive be oversalted to the point of inedibility.
- May you be given the same amount of empathy that you have shown to me whenever you are at your lowest.
- May you never be able to find a truly comfortable and peaceful sleeping position.
- May you always look directly into every too-bright light by mistake.
- May you continually bite the same spot on the inside of your cheek.
- May no person ever treat you as if you are wealthy.
- May you never be given the satisfaction of making another person cry.
january: resist everything that would destroy you: apathy, entropy, tyranny
february: your pain always has meaning; go to the fucking doctor
march: you do not need the right words or any words at all to be worthwhile; they will love you anyway
april: love and fury are indivisible
may: death isn’t interested in you nor, for the first time in your life, are you interested in her
june: this is how you breathe
july: yes, it is worth the extra work, time, and money to own AC
august: you will spend weeks longing for currents and snowmelt and the summer will pass before you can get a breath in edgewise
september: high collars and independence become you
october: you were not meant to live alone
november: that urge to diminish, to be less, is the antithesis of strength
december: nothing lasts forever and that fact will always be a blessing
what i have learned this year
There is nothing restorative or powerful about being the fat queer girl. This isn’t going to be some poignant statement about how we should love ourselves. If that’s what you’re here for, go elsewhere. There are a million poems about that so go read one of those.
There’s nothing confidence-inspiring about being the fat queer girl. Even among the enby femmes there is no fatness that is celebrated where we can see it; everyone is thin, thin, thin, thin because there is no fluidity in the softness of fat, I guess even though that’s metaphorically-incorrect and factually-incorrect and also deeply unfair.
And because I’m on a roll here with the self-pity– I’m not even the right kind of fat queer girl. You know the ones. The tall, busty girls with big eyes and the suggestion of hourglass waists in their forgiving proportions and shapely legs and mouths you could kiss until sunrise. With my lovehandles overswelling my hips. Inadequate breasts, columnal thighs, short neck, tiny eyes, thin lips, twisted spine–
There’s no one who wants to be the fat queer girl.