Sunday, November 8, 2009

scars hands voice | cripchick// blog


Sent to you by moya via Google Reader:


via Raven's Eye by maia on 11/8/09

scars hands voice | cripchick// blog.

i watch as they smile at me, sliding gloves on their hands and nodding to each other. they make small talk to pretend as though they are not prodding their fingers into my back. as though tomorrow not will not consist of knives slicing my skin. as though they do not notice my nakedness. but they cannot feign innocence forever. scars from biopsies never fade and each thigh is a reminder of every expedition taken upon this body, of surveyors ravaging holy lands in the reverent name of medicine. of the way that, after these white doctors realized they will never find what they are looking for, they grow bored with this body and send in therapists to teach the proper way to sit, hold silverware, roll my tongue, & do things little girls are supposed to do.

i touch my scars, remembering that this body was not always mine and i am still fighting for it everyday.

he slides his hand down my back, slapping hard against my twisted spine and the legs that betray me. everyone is screaming in tongues i don't understand. the travelling moksanim annoints my head with oil, recites scriptures and writes his declaration on my forehead. devil begone, daughter you are a child of the light. get up and walk already. what is your sin? walk i said! walk or you are not strong in faith. when i refuse to stand knowing i will fall, he turns his back to me and yells to the raging congregation. years later an asshole kid my age asks if i'm the girl that didn't believe enough.

i can't go to church or be around my own people without remembering how willing they were to refuse their love when i did not believe enough to be healed.

my trumpet partner and i sit in the back of band class teasing each other. when it is time for the brass section to play, he seals his lips tightly against the cold metal mouthpiece and blows air into his trumpet with so much force that it isn't obvious to others that mine is just quietly buzzing. after band class, we stand outside against the classroom trailer and he places his hand against the small of my back, kissing me. we never talk about how he is using his hands to support me in my standing and i learn quickly that if you can't separate cut cure or pray it away, hide it. bury it deep inside of you. swallow it, hiding it in the pit of your belly. fight to keep up with the others, give twice as much to prove that you are good enough. try your hardest to forget the markers that make you different. stay weary, stay exhausted, just hide it in you. it's the only way you'll make it.

lips pursed and promised, screams never make it past your throat.


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