Omer 22 - 22 piercings

Relegated to la belle juive. Relegated to a crying villain; claims of crocodile tears. Relegated to something not human without say, without thought, without care. I remain the caricature. I remain fiction. No control allotted or allowed. I am the one who haunts them, nonetheless.

I take the needle, one after another, to place gold in adornment. Piercing the flesh which will they will end up ripping. Ripping flesh turned to scar tissue to be pierced through again, more gold to add and shine. Twenty-two piercings, in addition and subtraction as relationships passed and time continues passing. Lauded and derided — my self control turning into their point of control.

Asked to remove, piece by piece. Demands to break down, piece by piece. In broken breath and stubborn spark of self, I keep to what I know in refusal to snap and become what is demanded of me. The struggle to establish control over my person and psyche raged, raged until I left. No comfort or safety was found among these men, pushed to be my own Hadassah in the fight for my self.

Vulnerable in mind and flesh, I wrestle with the self and wrestle with the world. There is no backing down but in the process my soft insides are exposed to wounding. Control lives on existence as fabricated and fabrication. The fabrics I don fleeting, style in flux as I am in flux. I add to the gold, chains of my own doing, embellishments to my liking — for me, this one thing.

I take to the winding road and bootleg paths through subconscious and unconscious to find the frayed ends, to soothe the limbic into releasing the petrified emotional muscles which remain tense from the pain past. Slowly, slowly coaxed into believing safety lives here. I am my own haven. I am my own story. I am real.

The healing done through you, I am sorry. The healing still to come, I am sorry. I am cleaning the wounds, massaging scar tissue, regaining the trust I lost with in my own self. A mistreated creature relearning domestication in the way I am suited, I cry and shake and love and touch gently in the way I want to be touched. I take to you with deep breaths as I do by the ocean, head quiet yet filled with the wonderful and the splendor which exists within reach and on the salt breeze which carries the salt spray’s rose scent; I breathe you in as deeply.

In the same stroke be ginger and rough, loving and objectifying — the passion we were raised on shown with care from care. My favorite place in the bed we share, skin to skin, awake and asleep — at last, safe.

———

For the love I have now: thank you.

Omer 21 — honey whiskey on my tongue < previous || next > Omer 23 — The Morning’s Golden Hour

the start: Omer 1 — Pomegranate