Let me strip naked, remove my facade,
so you can see inside of me
that I’m human
and not God
Let me wipe away my poker face
so you can peek beneath the mask
realize my barren
Let me demonstrate how dying feels
be locked up without parole
be removed totally
life without a soul
There are multitudes of angry words corralled behind her tongue
Waiting anxiously to stampede into the unwary ears of the unforgiven wrangler.
He doesn’t suspect that his lasso of rage would harness responsibility for his neglect.
She is unbridled in her disgust.
She halts without warning, veering suddenly towards the truth.
Although she relishes her saddle for its beautifully intricate design,
she bucks in furious battles against the reason it was placed on her back.
The cowboy remains oblivious to the pain of the branding iron
with which he sears her flesh with his signature as proof of his mortality.
The wrangler arrogantly believes he is bigger, better, stronger than she.
But her spirit hasn’t been broken. Her body is faster, smarter;
more adept at navigating the directional and environmental changes he affords.
She is her own shelter, her own stability, while he is self-oppressed at his hearth.
He is completely entranced and entrenched by his campfire of hatred.
It makes him unaware of her riding away at a full gallop into the sunrise of freedom.
Why do I need to act like a “lady?” What does that even mean? Be a yes, sir, no ma’am demure wall flower in hopes that I’ll get picked to be the next Cinderella? Does that mean I have to put someone else before me always and pray that my needs get met because I was a good girl and followed the rules?
Why do I need to play like a boy when I can be a woman and ditch cars, ride horses, bake cakes, kick dirt, saw wood, paint wordy pictures, dream just like any other human? Why does that even have to have a gender placed on it? We all know what we can do, why separate the two?
Why do I have to be respectable in public when the public slut shames my gender? Starts war upon my sisters with horrible results and back-alley horrors committed against their beauty out of spite, anger, jealousy? Why do I have to bow down to the “mighty” man of six years old because he was born with a penis and I was not? Fuck that. I’ll be who I am. You adapt to me. I’ll color just enough inside the lines so that you’ll have no choice but to look at my art, but when you start telling me that a sun has to be yellow and not purple, we’re no longer friends and I don’t have to be nice to you any more.
Why can’t I be passionate no matter where I am? No matter where I’m going? No matter what I’m doing? If I feel it, why should I make an excuse for loving my life and everything about it? This seems insulting to the very gifts I’ve been given. This seems selfish of me to hold back the beauty that is everything I am. It’s disgraceful to not be passionate about the life-gift we’ve been given and I don’t think it has anything to do about being a sexual being.
I treat my body like a temple, not a mausoleum. I don’t need quiet pristine walls to know that I’m alive. I need vibrant colors, loud music, laughter and singing, dancing at all hours with colors winging the ceilings and candles and joyous arousal. I need hats and capes, and delicious chocolates dripping with harmony. I’m here to live life not pretend I only want a little bit of a taste. I want the whole damn thing. I want to swallow it whole and chew for hours on ideas and thoughts of what I see; experience on every level.
Why can’t I treat my body like a motel if I want to? Why can’t I take a lover into my arms, no matter the number, no matter the reason? Why should I be held to a different standard than someone who happens to have different genitalia? Why do I need to limit myself to the taste and pleasures of one gender? What if I want to dip fingers into honey as much as I want to lick my lips up the honey dipper? Why can’t I smear sex on my body like peanut butter if I desire it? That’s a horrible double standard and I refuse your rule book, your little black marks, your stigma, and your anger towards my freedom to choose what I do with my body. It’s not some body. It’s MY body. See that? It’s not called YOUR body. It’s MY body. I can have a revolving door if I choose, so don’t dictate my hours or my calling. It’s not your motel to run. I’m sorry you’ve found the Bates Motel more to your liking, lurking with the dead and dispassionate. That’s not me.
I refuse to love unconditionally. If I were to do that, I’d be God or Goddess, or Buddha or Christ and I’m not any of those. I’m a human. I can look at you with disgust if I want to. I can refuse you entry to my chapel of horrors and my circus if I don’t like your act. I don’t owe you anything which, as many misconceive is what love is when it’s unconditional. That, in many people’s minds means without question. I’m not going to love someone who harms children, particularly me. No way. Been there done that and I’ve served my life sentence every day since my birth. No. I will not.
This part I can agree with. I will speak my truth and I will live as honestly as I can. Not for your benefit but because my spirit is peaceful when I know I’ve done my best to follow my own compass without your rules holding me to unrealistic and unreasonable behavioral constructs that do not belong in my body, mind, spirit, or hands. What I will further agree with is that if you trust me with your heart and I trust you with mine which means we vow, with word or not, to never betray that trust intentionally, you will never again have to feel alone.
Will you come spiral a dance with me
without your shoes or dress
on the naked earth
with a smile and a blush
your only adornment
under the dark of the moon
or the lavender of twilight
gleaming highlights of stars
on the curve of your knees, hips, and breasts
while the lungs of summer exhale
its final breezy breaths
until the wheel has come full circle?
Will you surrender to the rhythm of night
embracing the cicadas and crickets
as the treble notes of the living dark
while the thumping of our feet on the dirt
rustle leaves like the skirts we puddled
at the edge of the clearing
where the last of the season’s fireflies
beg for a mate to relieve their lonely hearts
while we build momentum in the cooling air
wildly sacrificing modesty for our natural state of being.