I can pinpoint all the scars on my body to an exact time or place or implement. I know which lies I told and the looks on the faces that accompanied them. I remember the feeling and the cycle. The trigger or the build up of nothing that just needed to be released out of me. I remember all of them.
Squashed down. Protected. No curfews no freedom. Limited. Naturally beautiful but not beautiful enough. A failed woman with no paint on her skin no rouge on the lips.
Married. Too old but young enough. Yes and no and three bags four and five.
The cement. Every fiber and every foundation. Growing and healing and learning and gaining.
She is power.
Running through me, thick and deep she is mother.
I’ve been feeling rather unsure about how I feel…
My stomach has grown handles. Will anyone ever hold them? Is this growth a bad thing?
As I sit (as I do most nights) very self aware, noticing every part of myself, I can’t help be disappointed about my general negativity.
My mind contains every part of my personality, my thoughts, my whole being. Every action stems from this one part of me.
My body is merely a way for my mind to survive, to thrive. It is not what makes me, but it is home.
Home is sacred. I should learn to respect and love my home.
When I began, it was paint. When I was young, a pencil and pen. Lines and shades would fill each corner of each page of each sketchbook. It would create and observe and imagine.
Then it was words.
Quotes that would cloud my mind that were spat in disgust that I had carved into my flesh. It was poetry yet I hadn’t realised it. Then I began to heal physically and repressed the words that were said, and the things that were spat.
I addressed my self loath. I emptied myself in the hope that I would gain a letter. ABC it didn’t matter. I needed the healing. I was called brave but I was just selfish. Making art about the things I had tried to forget but could not.
Then I had the choice.
I became strong. A fire fuelled me to create. The news and the media and the hate that was not to myself had empowered me more than the things I had experienced first hand.I addressed the things that my family experienced. That my skin defined me as. Spices and scents and layers upon layers of
Now I am talking. I am not making but I am writing. Still creating but differently.
This is now