DO I STILL EXIST IF NO ONE IS LOOKING AT ME? Eight poems on womanhood and putting myself back together Melissa Benedetta Calzari
No matter what you write about she says, you always sound sad. But this is the happiest I've ever been! And how sad is that? She says.
THE WOUND It smells like rain the day I first find blood in my underwear. It is June the 6th, 2006 so I am convinced the devil surely has something to do with it. My mother makes me wear a skirt to school and I'm sorry guys but I'm afraid I won't be able to jump the rope at recession today, I am a woman now. I know if there's blood there must be a wound. I can't see it but I can feel it every time I try to make myself look smaller, every time I pretend I'm not hungry. I can feel it every time someone touches my butt without my consent: I can't see the wound but the look in their eyes is telling me they can. That's the danger of a big city, they tell me: I quickly learn being safe comes before feeling comfortable in my own body, that's what they telling me. I learn how to fold my body into a thousand paper cranes that scream try to catcall me now, you fucks! The only way I know how to fight back is to make myself a weapon – I am the pepper spray can, the keys pressed between my fingers so hard my knuckles turn white. How many times am I allowed to be born again until I open my eyes and I'm the moon and every star? How did Presephone deal with carrying both day and night inside of her chest? How can I heal if I don't know where my wound is? And what if I don't, what if I reclaim my right to be vulnerable? What if there was never a wound to begin with?
BODIES I dreamt of one day breaking free from my body leaving the flesh the aching the human fragility behind until one day I met your body
BRANCHES They ask me what is it like to feel so empty yet always be this loud. I say I won't know what I think until I write it down, for you know my chest is hollow but the light is shining through. I don't have roots but have you ever seen such flourishing branches?
THIS IS WHY I DON'T TAKE YOU OUT TO DINNER The woman is sitting at the dinner table. The only element in the scene that isn't out of focus is the knife. Today's main course, the waiter says, is dissociation with a side of intrusive thoughts; unfortunately we're out of alphabet soup that spells out what the hell is wrong with you? but maybe we could fetch you a couple of judging stares or perhaps a whisper that sounds like who could ever love her? The woman stops and stares at her chest: she forgot to wear her “handle with care” badge – how is she going to let everyone know she is difficult to love? She decides her next number is going to be a vanishing act, but first she makes sure the spotlight is on her.
BREATHING SPACE Weak apologies die in my mouth before I dare to say them out loud. The golden hair on my thigh, gleaming in the sunlight, begs for forgiveness, but the bite marks on my knuckles told my hands never to trust me. The worst part of this is not having words to describe what's going on (either loudly quiet or quietly loud) but it's fine, they never ask anyway. Do I still exist if nobody is looking at me? It's like sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool, only it is filled with glue – I'm looking for a human sacrifice, for only blood can dissipate the fog. The switch to wake me up or shut me off works exactly the same way. Mother said: how could you do this to me? Friend said: how could you do this to yourself? Therapist said: have you considered this wasn't your fault? I'm still waiting for my body to forgive me.
WORTH The world tells you: you’re not supposed to feel whole. You must accept the wage gap, pursue a thigh gap, forget the vastness of the gap between where you are and where you wish you could’ve been by now. How can I ever be hollow, you wonder, when feelings are erupting from my fingertips, when sometimes I feel so full I have to pierce a hole through my lungs to be able to catch a breath. And if we get the hang of the emptiness what will we do the day they tear our heart out, put it on a scale, measure our worth? Will we apologize, the way we were taught?
How many times can you experience an emotion like it’s the first time?