THEY ARE STILL TELLING ME TO BREATHE nine poems on love, death, madness and rebirth by Melissa Benedetta Calzari
UNLADYLIKE I've learnt how to shave my legs and put on nail polish a long time before I learnt how to mend my broken heart. Sugar coated decadence is a delicate balancing act I never agreed to take part in – and I'm supposed to be Fergalicious and make them boys go crazy without being no hollaback girl, but the only person I wish my milkshake brought to the yard has eyes like the universe and is definitely not a boy. I was taught to be pretty (but not too pretty) and smart (but not too smart) because boys don't like it when you're better than them – and no, “what if I don't like boys?” isn't the right thing to ask, silly, of course you do! You're not one of those homos, I didn't raise you like that! I learnt not to let people in, without letting them know how scared I am, I'm absolutely terrified but I'm wearing dark lipstick and I've masterfully concealed my dark circles so obviously everything must be fine. Side effects of womanhood may include gender dysphoria, panic attacks in public restrooms, intricate web of lies to hide the fact that you're in love with another woman. I can't afford to be afraid of the dark anymore. I learnt to laugh at their jokes so they won't find out, but obviously never too loud because a nice and handsome man ought to be waiting for me somewhere and he's gonna rock my world. But she's got dimples and my desire to love is much bigger than the need to be loved back. I've learnt how to unfold myself and stand with a straight back, head up, loud laugh, unladylike.
SUMMER The year is two-thousand-and-three: summer has never been so hot. The hottest in the past century, they said, though I clearly remember the same being said last year and the one before that. Summer has never been so hot and I've never been so thirsty for life but I am sharp bones and scraped knees and the world is not ready for me. The year is two-thousand-fifteen and summer is pretty windy, pretty unpredictable. They don't say anything about it: they're too busy debating whether or not I deserve basic human rights. I've been alive for two decades, but life is still pretty unpredictable as I throw myself a party to celebrate the fact that I haven't killed myself. The year is two-thousand-nineteen and I have a PhD or maybe it's two-thousand-nineteen and I am buried six feet deep; either way I no longer care about what they have to say about summer or life or me. I no longer wish to feel dizzy and dainty and fragile. The year is two-thousand-fifteen and I am born again against all odds, and I am windy and unpredictable like summer and autumn merged together. I stop to pick dandelions with my eight-year-old self and I apologize for the years I didn't let her live. We're holding hands and standing in the wind – in spite of scraped knees and broken hearts, we're fine.
ON COMPULSORY HETEROSEXUALITY I know how to tell if a boy likes me; I've been taught how to. I know what to do, what to say, how to sway my hips; I know if he's just not that into me and how many days I should wait before calling him back. I know how to get out of an uncomfortable date, which digit to change when giving my number out wrong and how to laugh at the right times, but I couldn't even look back at her without shaking like a thirteen-year-old; this isn't what I've been taught at all. We ask each other what all the letters in LGBT mean. I realized it last year. I've known all my life. I was 12. We ask each other how sex works, how to meet other girls, we share tips on coming out. None of us were taught this. I tell people I like girls. I don't use the L word, ever. I take a deep breath and – nothing. It burns the back of my throat like the name of a former lover I obviously don't have because who could ever love me if I don't even know who I am? I don't know the proper girl-who-likes-girls etiquette like who asks the other out and who pays for lunch. I realize I'm asking myself who's the man; I realize it will take so many years to unlearn all of this. In three years of Cosmopolitan issues I've learnt everything I need to know to find a man, keep a man, please a man – I've read exactly one article on homosexuality, and it taught me how to convince myself that, believe it or not, lesbians are people too, just like me and you! I am expected to like boys so this is what I do. Nicholas Sparks cheers as I get myself into a dreamy relationship with a boy. Sweat drips down my spine the day we're having lunch and he asks if I know any lesbians. He probably knows why I won't have sex with him by now. No cheap high school movie has taught me what to do, no columns in magazines, no motherly advice. I still don't have sex with him, though, so two years later I can proudly declare myself a gold star. I have to learn it all by myself. Queer slang, queer literature, queer history. I've kissed a boy at fourteen, I didn't even kiss a girl before I turn twenty. “I didn't even know it was a possibility!” I tell my new friends. I teach myself how to say the word lesbian out loud without having to choke back tears, without wanting to kill myself. I stop myself from saying sorry before or after I tell someone I'm gay – I finally teach myself my existence isn't something I have to apologize for.
I DON'T THINK I CAN DO THIS ANYMORE How can I love you if I even forget to water my plants?
SOLIPSISM Sometimes when I hear thunderstorms raging outside I close all the windows and picture the end of the world – I crave it yet my bones tingle and whisper “we want to live!” Be quiet, I tell them. You'll be free soon enough but they laughed at me the day I tried to touch sunlight and ended up biting my tongue instead. L'appel du vide is French for the instinctive urge to jump from high places; gravity is English for what is stopping me. Gravity and also the gentle breeze on my back reminding me I can't fly. Also I can't sing and I can't hold grudges but it has never stopped me from doing both. It would make such a great story. Sometimes I have to remind myself I am real so I keep existing even after I close my eyes though the same can't be said for the rest of the world. I don't open my eyes and I don't look at the sky and I can't help wondering how many other things I couldn't see despite being this loud. My bones want me to play it safe so I don't jump off bridges and buildings though I dig my fingernails into my skin sometimes. I never reach my bones. Sometimes, when I hear thunder, I open the door and step outside.
SHE'S NOT HERE “From now on, pretty things only” she says and she closes her eyes, to make every word sound like poetry. I wallow in the sound of her breath as if she's an art I have yet to master. I know speaking isn't the only great thing she can do with those lips. They say she can talk to trees. “Did you know in spring they get really sad because they were starting to get used to the emptiness?” she says. “Is that what happened when we met?” I ask, but she's not here. She's talking to the trees. It would be so convenient to blame her for all my mental fallacies and All The Horrible Things™, but I'd have a hard time explaining why I keep coming back for more. I take full responsibility. I can't remember if the words I use are mine or hers. “Mercury's in retrograde until June 11th” she says as she packs her bags. “When are you coming back?” Only the planets know. Had I been a tree or a planet or a star or the wind maybe she'd talk to me too.
AND NOW I'M SAD HAPPY I dreamt you were getting married and I was sitting on the floor of a hotel room drinking paint water from a blood-stained mug with your maiden last name on it. From the window I could see David Foster Wallace laughing at me – “get out of your uncomfort zone” he told me, “oh, and watercolours are nice but next time paint me something bright” and a dog who had eyes kinda like yours stared at me and whispered you are loved you are loved you are loved. Cognitive dissonance is the mental discomfort which comes from behaviours conflicting with one's thoughts, also known as not having sex with him despite being in love, or knowing your life is wrong and still choosing to exist. I also like to call it being afraid of birds and filling your soul with paper cranes because what's on the inside can't hurt you (spoiler alert: I was wrong) or considering yourself a rational person and refusing to leave the house with mismatched socks. “You're not the only one I've ever written poems about” I say laying in your bed because I love you so much I want to hurt you. “In fact, each stanza of this poem is about a different person” They're not, you say. They're all about you, as usual. “There will be other people after you” I say just like there will be another attempt at self medication after yoga and green tea while trying to figure out where is the line between mental illness and character's flaws. “But you're the only one who ever made me want to paint in yellow”, I swear.
THIS IS HOW VULNERABLE I AM You have no idea how absolutely terrified I am I don't think I've ever been this scared and I know I'm going to end up burnt 'cause when you laid your head on my shoulder I could smell a forest fire / “you remind me of death� you said and I know you want me to hold you but I can't stop staring at my hands / yet you kept coming back I didn't know I didn't know I had no idea you were mourning in pastels and I was dancing in black but you were there you were always there even with a clenched jaw, as scared as I am were you sad, mad, picturing me dead? I never lied to you I never did you know I never did the sky laughed at you but you don't care you are the earth the trees the grass I took for granted and now everything is about you / all I can think about is Franz Kafka and how you are my knife you are in every colour and I didn't even notice and I'm so very sorry but I'm so very scared
IRONY Such a hilarious thing: I'm drowning yet they're still telling me to breathe.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Irony and I don't think I can do this anymore were first published on One Sentence Poems. Summer was first published on The Fem Literary Magazine. On Compulsory Heterosexuality, Unladylike and Solipsism were first published on Transcending Shadows Review.