I keep them all locked up
broken bits of myself
and the only things that keep me together
are the lies I’ve told to keep the secrets to myself.
I will never say a word.
Carrying it swirling around my shoulders
cracked features and blurred eyesight
years of secrets I don’t need to keep.
Haven’t needed to keep for too many years.
I am nothing without them,
they are me as much as I am.
When I am done and dead
all that will be left
will be secrets and ash
as I burn into the atmosphere.
Not from anyone in particular – I didn’t have them dropped off at a shop to be cleaned or anything. I’m taking them back from my bra. And from society. I don’t need to wear a bra, so I’m not going to wear a bra.
Two things you should know about me when it comes to this. One, I am overweight, but a B-cup. And barely a B-cup. It varies between A and B depending on my weight. So getting a bra that fits is a difficulty in the first place. Bras either don’t fit, or they’re really expensive (and still don’t fit). Basically I have bra extenders but even then they’re still a bit too tight to be considered either healthy or comfortable.
Two – I do not dress up much. On my better days I’m a tomboy, most days I’m a clean scruff bag. I’ve been like that since I was seven years old. I am more comfortable with my nudity, especially when it comes to my chest, than I am in a blouse.
I don’t even like the word blouse.
Or shoes, I hate shoes.
But that’s off point.
So I’ve decided to stop wearing bras. It was half a joke on a facebook status my wife made about fixing my washing machine. Two of my stupid bra extenders were stuck in the drain this time (not the first time it’s happened) and now the machine is leaking. I like my washing machine. I do not like my bras. Something had to go.
I tend not to wear a bra at home (I can’t imagine there are a lot of women that do), I never wear it to the village shops either. Cause, screw that. I only wear it when I leave the village – when I go to work, or into town.
Saturday I went to town without it on. Just went in my t-shirt and my jacket and no freaking bra. No one noticed. No one cares. I don’t know why I think they care. There’s some unwritten rule about bras that everyone follows and no wants to. No one is looking at my chest. Okay, some people are looking at my chest – based on the law of averages. Cause I know I am looking at people’s chest for various reasons – I like geeky t-shirts and breasts – but no one bloody cares.
I don’t care.
Work was the big thing today. I don’t need the support but damn it’s cold in my house in the morning and my nips need the extra layer – either to keep them warm or so they’re less obvious. Plus I was kinda nervous about it, cause I did a full day at work, I knew it would be busy and I’ve been conditioned into this idea that I need to wear a bra. So I wore a vest underneath my uniform – which is a thick polyester thing – to take the edge off. The vest made me hot and did take the edge off my nips for the morning. And I think I’ll wear a vest for the rest of the week as I get used to it all. I also took my bra to work with me in my bag just in case I felt like needed it.
I didn’t. And dammit I was too busy today to even really think about it. I was too warm but too busy to really even be bothered about that. Which is what I like about my job in the tourist months but off point as usual.
So, we’ll see how this goes. As of writing, it’s nice, cause my bras never did fit right, never did feel right. Not for a long time. I don’t need the support. Hell, I need the improved circulation and freedom and just god not having to do something else people are telling me I should do. I hate being told what to do.
I understand this isn’t for everyone. Some women need the support. Some women want to wear bras but I certainly don’t. It’s my body and I will continue to do whatever I want to it from tattooing to clothing.
We twist ourselves
into other beings
that aren’t true
out of a need
to be within a circle
we can’t contain
Foolish as we are.
from the inside and out
we are who we need to be
not who we are.
Shame as that is.
I am neither
not who I must be
or who I am.
Torn been propriety
Expectations are endless
high and hopeless
all at once.
I exceed and fail.
man and woman
faith and fantasy,
all and nothing.
I live through it
regardless of it
because we’re born to it
and don’t change it.
Won’t change it.
Foolish as we are.
I talk to myself all the time. I have since I was a kid. My dad used to tell me that talking to yourself was a sign of madness. The second sign was hairs on the palms of your hands. The third sign was looking for them.
Fell for it very time.
I tell people I talk to myself because it’s easier. And that I get better answers that way. I get more done when I talk to myself. I like talking to myself sometimes. I tend to count out loud because I find it easier to count that way – same with sums and the alphabet. I definitely have to recite the alphabet to myself if I need to remember anything.
I tend to berate myself out loud. I don’t mean swearing to myself – I tend to tell myself off out loud when I mess up the little things. When I mess up the big things there tends to be more messy than that as my wife can attest too.
Mostly I talk to the cats at home. They talk back too sometimes. And they talk to themselves as well. For the first few weeks when we got Reb Brown he just miowed over and over and over. At first we thought he wanted to get back out of the house and he probably did. But now it’s been almost a year since we took him in and every night he still calls out, walking around the house after we go to bed and just talking to himself. We thought he was looking for us but when we call out to him he ignores us and just carries on. We thought he was looking for one of the other cats – Pogo at first, and later the kitten but no, he just carries on.
I wrap words around me
to protect and deflect
from the worst of my fears.
I am nothing without them
even broken syllables
offer me something to hide behind.
I twist myself into them
deeper into letters and vowels
because I can’t handle
flesh and blood
breathing and the hearts beating
of those around me.
I give in to the social order
like it’s a duty
and it’s broken me into
little pieces I place
into poems like shrines
hoping to find a way
to place myself back together
I don’t know how I feel about the word recovery or the idea of it. Recovered does indicate that there is something wrong with me that is changable, fixable when I think the best I can ever face is improvable.
However, this is said when a bit of depression is settling in for the night. I wonder if I will feel so pessimistic about it tomorrow when I feel a little better (I find these things pass quicker recently).
I have recovered from that virus that put me in the hospital a few years ago. I’ve recovered from the endless cough that I’d been unable to shift all winter.
I have stopped self-harming. But I still think about it. I have even considered it once or twice over the past few months or so. I’m not depressed every day. I don’t suffer from anxiety or panic attacks every day but just last week I couldn’t get out of bed – physically could not move out of panic. A lot of the major symptoms that got me diagnosed with BPD are lessened.
Does this mean I’ve recovered? I’m recovering? Will I ever recover?
I try not to dwell on it too much actually. I don’t care about recovery much. I don’t think about getting better, being normal. Not any more. I guess that’s as recovered as I can ever expect to be.
Hours become wreckage
seconds become ash
at her touch as she walks through
the darkest past and the brightest future.
It all comes undone,
one year can go by in a heartbeat
or she can stretch a second out for infinity
Whenever she wants
is broken into pieces,
I’ve seen dawn drown
and dusk destroyed.
All I ever wanted was to watch
as she wields time to her whim,
it’s almost beautiful.
If only it didn’t hurt so much
to be lost to that touch.
She’s alone in her eternity
racing through infinity
looking for an end that does not exist.
There’s no escape, she suffers for it.
For a touch she didn’t ask for.
There are some words that are inherently offensive. Some that used to be offensive and still can be with the wrong tone and right meaning behind it and some that aren’t offensive any more.
Queer isn’t offensive to me, unless you’re yelling it. And to be honest, I’m gonna be more pissed off about the yelling than the word. Cause I am queer. In both senses of the word. That’s what makes language so interesting, the duality of it. If I can insult you and describe you with the same word, I think that’s bloody great. Though, lets not forget all the other words out there. We don’t need the same word to do both jobs. We’ve got a whole dictionary of words just desperate to be used. The OED has 600,000 words in it.
People tend to forget or not realise that some words have changed. The meaning, the tone, social acceptance of a word.
Lesbian is a good one.
It’s just a word.
But it means something. And while it was something whispered around like a dirty secret or thrown around like an insult – here in Britain at least – it’s just come to settle as a word to describe women who are attracted to other women. It’s not a dirty word. It’s not even a sexually charged word any more. Just a few letters, but together to describe women like my wife.
It’s not a word you need to stop yourself saying in front of kids.
Fuck. That’s a word you shouldn’t say in front a bunch of kids. Lesbian not so much.
Especially considering my kids, when I have them (it’s a work in progress) are going to be aware of what a lesbian is from the beginning. Why would you tell her not to say the word that describes her mother?
I like the word queer because I like the way it sounds, the way it’s spelt. It’s a wonderful word. Lesbian isn’t a good. I like bisexual because it has sex in it (I like the sound of the word sex too) and the bi sound. I could go on about words I like all day.
Words are meaningful, powerful but words can mean anything and everything. Careful with them.