spit-tears's Diaryland Diary

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soft stuffed corduroy chair

somewhere
where I was more innocent
where the world had fewer requirements of time
I sat in the sun
atop faded floral sheet
thin grass blades stabbing through worn wefts
paper thin slices of sunburnt calves
aloe to soothe
sweet words to woo
a grown man's hands
felt safe when I was brand new.

When clergy-men
teaching us sexual purity publicly
privately preaches to the choir of my neurons that--
the space between-
my fingers and my thighs
might just be where the holy ghost resides,
and little lamb, should we scrutinize?

As if any public-school-teacher could prepare me for the reality of being a wife-
lessons un-wholly learnt in the casual chair classroom
he called Life a game that many can learn but only only some can win-
He said the first thing to unpack was sin and how if god created me so beautifully it was rude to deny him.
barely forced, I've kept smiling, pleasant resentments
broken wheel luggage in an unfamiliar airport.

I became malleable-
amenable to the slightly less than innocent
requests from young alcoholic charismatic men.
my version of a manic pixie dream girl.

But WERE the choices MINE?
DID the divine exist within the wetness I was so sweetly and firmly asked to let drip onto
chess board church basement bathroom tiles?

Was I afraid of saying no?
Denying THEIR desires, OR my own?

7:40 pm - Saturday, Mar. 02, 2024

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