There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep, and still be counted as warriors. Adrienne Rich
This is the story of a secret. A secret kept for decades, one I had buried so deep I didn’t even know it was there. Many of us carry secrets: things we were told not to reveal or things we simply couldn’t–for fear of judgment or reprisal or, worst of all, for fear that if the people we love found out, they’d see us differently. Sometimes we keep secrets to survive. Then a moment arrives when the usefulness of the secret expires. Keeping it becomes the thing that hurt us. We have to tell.
Long ago, there was a widowed Chinese farmer. The farmer and his only son laboured through the cold winds of winter and scorching rays of summer with their last remaining horse. One day, the son didn’t lock the gate of the stable properly, and the horse bolted away.
Every poem has a double-hung window inside it, the kind that allows you to let in a little more air when you feel as if you can’t breathe. Sometimes, seeing through it helps you find a new way to frame the world.
Does everyone know what this term ‘resting bitch face’ is? It’s a term coined by someone who is just generally unhappy with the fact that women aren’t smiling literally all the time. You’re like sleeping and he’s like “You have a bitch face.” And you’re like “I mean I’m literally taking a nap. So, I’m sorry. I don’t know? ” I’ve been doing this thing lately where I write odes to things I think I’m supposed to be ashamed of, which is largely how shame works. We think we’re supposed to feel it. We’re told we’re supposed to feel it. About the way we live and act and walk and speak and dress and are. We feel it because someone told us to. It’s not an organic feeling. I’ve been writing odes to things like that to counteract that feeling.
This is an ode to my bitch face.
You pink armour lipstick rebel steel cheek slit mouth head to the ground mean girl. You headphones in but no music. You house key turned blade. You quick step between street lights, strainer of pricks and chest beaters, laughter is a foreign language to your dry ice tongue.
There is something I don’t know that I am supposed to know. I don’t know what it is I don’t know, and yet am supposed to know, and I feel I look stupid if I seem not to know and not to know what it is I don’t know.
