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Honeysuckle

21/10/2021

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When we were children, our hearts sang of freedom. We could feel it in our bones, hear it in our laughter, and taste the dreams and possibilities on our tongues. The world was new, spring green, and flowering. We thought maybe one day we would fly.

None of us get to hold onto that completely. For some of us, it was far too short lived. And still more of us never got to experience that freedom at all.

That is the sorrow of this world. That is our shared grief.

And now our bones have grown brittle; our bodies too burdened for flight. At least that is our shared belief: that survival is our only dream and anything else is naive.

Written 6/6/2021

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Shedding our skins to be whole

21/10/2021

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Age fifteen. I looked at him over my pizza as I chewed enthusiastically. "I love how much you love food!" He said, grinning. "You're not like other girls." "Thank you," I mumbled between swallows. Images of just four years ago filled my memory. My ribs had jutted like sharp waves through my skin. I had gagged on each bite, my stomach wrenching as I fought to swallow; at war with my own body.

Age seventeen. "You're so naturally beautiful," he said, his voice like honey. "I mean," he clarified, "that you're beautiful without makeup. You're not like other girls." "Thanks," I replied, watching the blur of my mascara-blackened eyelashes bounce with each blink, out of the corner of my heavily-lined eye.

Age 27. "You're so cool! I can't usually talk to women about other women," he laughed. "Uh huh," I said weakly, still struck by nausea after remarking on the aesthetic appeal of yet another woman's body, for his approval.

We are to be sexually appraisable at all times. We must devour our food despite being thin - our flat stomachs must never betray the life-giving nutrients we absorb.

We must effortlessly shine with an even, perfect glow - our smooth, pore-less skin must never betray any sleepless nights of stress and emotion, or the story lines that our lives tell.

Finally, we must regularly view each other through the always-fuckable lens that was bestowed upon us by our forefathers. Hold up the mirror but don't look too close; she is only a pretty shell that I can point out to him. It's like bird watching, except you get cool points.

I gave up on being unlike other girls a long time ago. I began to find it strange that I cut pieces of myself off for these men, all to avoid being like the women who never wanted me to be anything but whole. Whole in my imperfections. Whole in our shared traumas and joys. Whole as we welcome even these men who are ready for change. Ready to slough off the damaged skin from their desiccated boyhoods and soak in the authenticity of their own vulnerability.

Written 22/1/2021

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    OwlCat

    These are the words that spew forth from my unrelenting brain, usually in times of pain or depression. I try to keep a bitter-sweet tone to highlight the hope I still see in the world.

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