Me, Undone

I saw the X-men prequel a few weeks ago and I have been unable to let it go. I left the movie feeling an eerie connection to Mystique's character. She is a mutant so agonizingly human, hiding in plain sight. Like Mystique, I began morphing to survive. It’s a learned sport. As a little girl, I became whatever I was needed to be. Silent. Self-sufficient. Un-needy. The keeper of secrets. I adapted quickly and ferociously, lest I be caught dead. And then there was the move to private school. I shifted into the black girl who “talked and acted white.” Traded my Boys II Men and SWV cassette tapes for Dave Matthews Band and Phish. Packed my bag with turkey sandwiches and baby carrots. I was the agreeable token black student. In college, the masking continued by kissing boys, and eventually marrying one in my early twenties. I hid my love for women with Bible verses. I was the loving wife. The righteous Christian sister. I foolishly thought that in my coming out and move to a m...

Anyone can tell you that after occupation comes rebellion. Once now, the insurgency grows. First, a few futile attempts. Then, indomitable chaos. You began the invasion with kind sentiments and gestures. Lining her tongue with your words. Giving her new thoughts, one by one. Taking her god from the mantle and replacing it with your image. Now she knows she must rid herself of you. For good. See her walking down the street with metal and acid taped neatly beneath her purple sundress.

These things bloom like moss on the belly of stone. Soft, damp, copious--stolen from light. These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely. These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in. These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.

And when the breeze cups my face, I know that I am alive. If you are reading this, you and I have made it to the other side. Feel the sun in sublime thickness lining your limbs. You are loved. You are love. Open.

This picture is a representation of my personal life, as I write. It's in shambles. The cloudy skies above, the rain falling down all around me, and I am the kid, in my raincoat, still holding on to my three silver balloons. Please don't fly away. I am dating once again. I've gone out with a few interesting women--two particularly exceptional women, including the priestess, but I am stuck. Trapped in the regrets, the what ifs of my previous relationship. I am staring at broken glass. I set fire to the rain for good reason. But the heart is wild, unamenable. It still loves. It refuses to recognize any combination but hers. To follow any sound than that of her voice. To map any pattern than of her body. There is no mold. But then, she knew that already.

She wants to fuck me as an act of mercy. To lay me out like a meditation. She wants to push inside of me as a spiritual practice. She is the priestess come to baptise me in shared flood waters. To excise the demons with her hands 'round my waist. She brings her tongue up to my ear to whisper sweet supplications. Incantations. Bless me for I have...over and over. Behind the altar. In my white dress. She performs a healing. Her mouth to my mouth. I gasp for air brought back into my lungs again.

A storm is coming. I can see it savoring and slivering down the way. I sit, on cold floor, patiently waiting for its arrival. I beg for the rain to take its time with me. Wash it away. The once useful, now un/useable. I'm holding still for your hands. Come forth. Show yourself with grace.