The last time I wrote something, I said I’d write next about being poly… but I don’t have my thoughts on that collected just yet, so instead I’m going to get a little vulnerable with you and share something I wrote a fair while ago. I think I’d like to change the last lines but for the time being I don’t have any better ideas so:
“She Wears Nothing.”
She wears nothing but torn tights, combat boots, and checkered skirts and men’s shirts she finds in thrift stores. She has golden ringlets that would cascade if they weren’t trying so hard to escape from her head. A boy once told her she looked like a lioness – evidently he wasn’t so hot at zoology. She played her guitar like she played women – fast and hard.
She kisses married women in dark secret places and married men kiss her back. She drank a cup of tea one time – who knows what was in there – and she flew like a fighter jet and she was never jealous of the birds again.
She regained consciousness and started breathing On. Her. Own.
She lapsed into a song.
She walked the halls of the hospital wards and they smelled like life instead of that oddly dirty disinfectant infectious sadness.
She bought a spell on the internet that made it all better.
She didn’t come from anywhere except that she grew up in a little brick house but before that who knows.
And when I say she grew up I mean she Grew Up behind the shrubbery around a lake named after a prophet.
She lived life quick but sure like the never-there steps of deer and wondered at the strange dichotomous beings around her because she was only ever But One.
Too many boys who didn’t know what life was and too many girls who thought they did sent her tailspinning into complicated silken webs with a small soft clumsy companion and a sloe gin fizz.
She stopped asking questions and began hearing answers in the lace cathedral at twilight.
She met people and vistas and trees and forgot all their names but never their souls.
She wasted a thousand years praying to the politicians knowing everything before she met the Universe and knew she was an infant swimming among the stars.
Old is a thing she knows but never felt.
She lives in eternity.
Ten thousand journeys have been made for her and they are all but a distant memory in this