There are tones and there are timbres in a whisper, that are hardly heard.
They’re reminiscent of cicadas, or indigestion. They’re the ringing in your ears, trains on tracks, hands on doorknobs, lips on lips.
We live our lives loudly, with constant distractions, anticipations and anxieties.
I am shaken awake by sirens and discordant moans that purr from my husband’s chest.
He is beautiful even when he sleeps.
How is that even possible?
I listen to his snoring. A wild beast at first, a crescendo of glossolalia. I see him twitch, let out a smile.
He is content.
But, it’s late, and the black dogs are here.
Rabid, hungry, treacherous.
I want to die.
Slowly, like molasses.
I want to forget that he hurt me. I want to forget all of my hurts.
I want to forget that I can capitalize myself on these hurts.
I can see it now,
“Salvadoran Refugee Plus-Size Bruja Poet, Rape Survivor, Living with BPD, PTSD, Celiac, HS, Diverticulitis, & Broken Ankles. “
I don’t think it sounds tragic enough.
I don’t think people will feel enough of my pain.
It’s not beautifully ugly enough.
Look, I am not unique.
I am afflicted with the “I’m ugly and fat” disease as much as the next person.
I was fed the same GMO’s and the same commercials.
I was rejected and called names and bled at 9 years old and got fat-fast from your fast-food.
I was however, blessed with a wit and heart that makes men want to get to know me, women love me, and eventually leading to them falling in love with me.
I have suffered rejection, but for the most part, I have been loved.
I am tainted and abstract.
I’m better real up close, when everything gets distorted.
But my competition is gorgeous.
I am of the ilk of rape survivors who burned, sliced and singed their cunts because they felt as if its very existence was the motive for their pain and suffering.
That it needed to be eradicated, because it had been too visible.
It was the culprit.
Am I even making sense?
Who gives a fuck.
Healing is eternal. I will never be healed.
The knowing of that, is healing.
The constant repetition, the ritual, the laughter, the tears, the poetry, the fucking, the late nights, the wine, the weed, the painting, the lovemaking, the fighting.
That’s the healing.
But nights are for whispers.
They are for salt and sugar, and all things that taste good and look good under a microscope.
Pretend I’m a vintage typewriter and pound me.
Pretend I’m everything you hate and love at once.
Whisper it to me come night.
Mornings are for forgiveness.
“Insomnia”, marker and pen, 5.5” x 8.5”