my truth is purple. the bruises you so lovingly administer, carefully placed. i watch and poke and probe them as they turn blue to a sickly green. the delicious pain and changing color reminds me of your love, our unique love.
and purple is the color of royalty but i didn’t feel royal when he choked me out of anger, or when he pushed me down even though i whispered “no.”
my truth is in my eyes- honest, showing all i feel. my eyes express the love i share with many, giving to all i see. hands held, holding your hand and your hand and your hand in mine. rubbing circles and words into your flesh until i create a hole i can crawl into and lose myself and find myself simultaneously.
my truth is my sexuality that i own, though others have tried to steal it time and time again. i give you my love freely but you cannot just take my flesh when i wear a low cut blouse, or try to enter it for a paid meal, or exclaim it is yours because we are “together.” my body is mine and i will share it with you in love, in passion, tenderly and roughly. bend me over and fuck me yet whisper sweetly that our love is true. but know this, i decide when i can share my flesh and my soul and my heart and my mind with you. i am not a prize to be won or an object to be stolen, the strength of my spirit must be earned by you to experience.
and my truth is exponential love tempered by exponential pain. a body that is broken and a brain that is so torn in two it yearns to break free from its eggshell so much that it tries to crack in two, splitting me into shards of broken glass that no amount of superglue can hold together. a spine that is twisted and carries a greater weight than what is “acceptable” by american society.
i should have been painted by bottecelli, for i am the venus on the clamshell. i am curves and hair and softness and round breasts and an even more plump derierre. i am not tall and graceful and lithe like a ballet dancer; but short and clumsy, tripping over my mutant small feet. for how are something so small supposed to carry the weight of my wonderfulness? of my goddess form that only a few deem “worthy.” yet if you but sought passed the flesh that is so delicate yet resiliant, you could see the battle scars of my life stretched along my thighs, and the pain that i have tried to understand by digging into my skin, so that the sun gives me away and shows my secrets. but it is my scars that help to make me me, for they are etched in my skin to show you my past and are a battle cry of what i have conquered, that no amount of bullshit can bring me down. and if you but look into me instead of just at me you would find an unbelievable love and compassion for everyone.
and my truth is different from your truth. but mine is just as beautiful and exquisitely tortured and wrent in two as yours.
and rather than biting, clashing, tearing each other apart, gnashing our teeth and beating our chest screaming to proclaim our truth to be more valid than the other, what if we held arms, clasped fingers and held one another in the comraderie of being fucked up? because our truths are not a contest to be won but a link of pain and beauty and a longing to connect to another.
let’s be different and fucked up together. and instead of pointing fingers of superiority at others in exclusion, why don’t we embrace them too and proclaim ourselves elegantly fucked up together, or own little club where everyone is loved openly without stupid labels that set us apart and divide us like countries to be battled and conquered. we don’t need flags of ownership; we own ourselves and that should be enough. the rest let’s just give. i give my truth to you. we can share it and cherish my truth and your truth together in all its complexity until we just exist in a fit of giggling randomness at it all.