Mother

She’s the lifeforce. I woke up next to her one day, and touched her face. Soft. I know all the lines, I know why she smiles, and I’ve seen the frowns, I have seen the tears.

I remember the day she lost her mother; I remember the day we had a monster break in through her parent’s house and shove my nana to the ground, this 6ft tall, hunkering man. And I remember her scream.

I remember the day she breathed life into me as I nearly choked to death, I remember her pumping my chest to keep me fading forever. Mother. Mother. Mother! I yelled as I thought she was fainting once, as I ran over to her. I thought I would have lost her then. Mother! I yelled in pain, over this, that, the other. Her eyes, they keep me going for now. I have to remember those eyes, and that heart, and that soul, always by my side.

She comes over sometimes and hugs me, brings me a cup of coffee, or tea – she asks me what I am up to, what I have done so far. How is it that I am yet unable to care for her the way she can for me. Mother, let me cook for you, let me take that burden – let me, let me, let me. What are those cracks in your heart that you hide from me.

Her hair is so silver now, but her smile is as beautiful and as gorgeous as ever, the way I would want to remember after thousands of sunrises more, for she and the sun, they are the same, the lifeforce. Mother.

The Objectification of Me

Have you ever felt the itensity of the male gaze? As it lingers over your face, your lips, your hair…. eyes digging into your face.

It almost feels like hate washing over you, like unwanted bees swarming all over your body – as you try to shake it off.

The touch of someone’s hand brushes over your arm, up and down, reassuring – but removing your agency from the equation.

The eyes squint, gauging your strenghts and weaknesses, like a hunter assessing the routes its prey can take. Slow, measured, and with a lethal precision.

A friendly, but fake smile, microexpressions: am I going to lose here or win? What are the stakes of the situation? And how can I best exploit… her?

Can I use her money, her looks, her brains, her charm, her passion? Can I sell her off as something that I own? – or is she too rebellious? Assessing your prowess.

Can I get away with that? That? That?

And all the thoughts that you think as a man. All the thoughts that I dont think twice about when I fall head first in love. And you want me to act like this is a transaction. Your body, and mine. The socioeconomics of how you can control me.

You dont own me.

 

Delusion
I want to make
art
out of you
That is the best use
that I can think of
for your masculinity
So fragile
That you can be my muse
You ask me
About the clothes that I wear
my make up that you think
I put on for your benefit
When you see me
You ask me
if I am going out tonight
Because my face looks all made up
For someone else’s approval
No.
This is my war paint
That you cannot crack into
My purple lip stain says
I have been bruised
Too many times in the past
This is not a welcome note
to taste my lips
This is defiance
This
is a reminder for me
to hold my tongue
That can set your insides
On fire
You call me a prop
That you can use
To show off to your friends
As a validation of your existence
A marker to prove your virility
Isnt it rather ironic
That you need me
To make you feel like a man
My metallic eyeshadow is not
a simple flirtation
It is a warning sign
Do not mess with these dark eyes
They have cried rivers and there will be
no more
This mascara will not stain
And ruin the bronze blush
on my cheeks; ever.
My hands, with my nails in lavender
Are not meant for you to lead
overpower, do not drown out my voice
or try to invalidate my worth
These are talons
They know how to wield a knife
and they know how to pull the trigger
… If I choose
You are expecting
Politeness
From a girl who has known the streets
And loves every path that
this World has offered up to me
as an homage to my existence
That has led me on to
new adventures and highs
You
Are expecting me to cower
and make myself smaller
in your presence
Like a flower about to be
crushed beneath your boots
to tremble.
You want me to tone down
My existence
Because you cannot figure out
Which box to place me in
What checks to mark
How to define this, this, this,
this thing, this girl,
This mind?
This person?
This human?
This soul?
And you want to belittle me
when I am nice
mistaking,
once again, kindness for weakness
Pity for cowardice
Silence for permission to ridicule
When
You
are
not
a
battle
worth
fighting
for
You expect me to break
When all the while I have admired
The women
who are the artists, the rebels,
revolutionaries
Protestors; change agents
My Frida, my Amelia, my Rosa,
My Marie,
My Elizabeth, my Florence, my Coco
And I can be anyone
I choose to be
On any given day
Yes: a bitch.
And you forget
That gasoline and sparks
create the same fire
Regardless of the hand
that lights it
My God
Has
not
made
me
Frail.
That,
is your delusion.
© The Wild Child Experiment, 2017.

Bloom

She’s nice
As if it’s an insult
A pitiful statement
Because you’re not
Because you chose to be a generic type a asshole
“You’re so nice,” and I hope you die
But wait, you are so aggressive
Oh dear
Why don’t you smile more, you’re so pretty
What’s got you down today?
Well I can play the game better
Better than you
You know I have seen so many lows
And you want to teach me my place
My place, in the grand scheme of things
You with your worldview that’s limited to
Treating people like playthings
My caramel skin
You want to teach me to bow
You want me to act like a damsel in distress
Because I cant figure out how the numbers add up
My full, pink lips
You want me to be on my knees
And say that I respect your arrogance
Your lack of understanding
My kindness
That you mistake for weakness time after time
My bright blonde hair
You can’t even scratch the surface of my darkness
Nor the years that made my skin as thick as a dragon’s
The scales that protect me from the likes of you
Your predatory eyes that undress me for your pleasure
And your pleasure alone
My distress that causes a gleam in your eyes
My weary shoulders that carry the weight of my sorrows
Solitary, exiled
My spine that’s rigid
Unforgiving as your rumors
A silver gun pointed at my head
You, you expect me to bow?
With your lies, and poison and devious tongue
My dark brown eyes
That see right through your shallow pride
Your empty nights
Your insecurities
Your mind filled with ambition
You expect me to bow?
You?
When you tell me I haven’t been humbled enough
As if you are some kind of immortal
Remind me again
Why do I engage with the likes of you?
You that would reach the top only to fall
Only to burn into ashes and dust
Beneath the soil like innumerable others
You, that believes in no god, no heart, and no soul
In your tiny little bubble
You, who expects me to be a lesser person
A timid little thing, with no voice
And no valor
You that walks on the hopes and dreams of others
Just to make yourself feel taller
When amongst the giants you are still a nobody
And you want me to bow?
Trying to make objects out of people
Trying to turn flesh, and skin, and hair,
Heart, lungs, and hands, feet made to run
And a mouth that spits fire
Into your possession
Clay in your hand, to bend to your every whim
Your mind trying to crack into my facades
But did I tell you I can’t count the number
Of lies that I have told you anymore
Because your eyes look hard into me
Trying to break into my defenses
Your hands try to claw off my skin
Rip my soul to tiny little shreds
Like paper through a shredder
Your smirks that want to wipe away
All my laughter and cloud my sunny days
You, that wants me to change every way I own
To block every path that I tread
I pity you
And your petty little games
You, that needs fifty other tongues
To devour my very existence
Fifty others to break down my walls
To trample upon my heart
You, a petty little fiend
That only wants to stomp
On a flower that’s only going to last
This spring
You want me to bow
Before I die?
Not I

© The Wild Child Experiment, 2017.

The Fall

The lonesome tree on the hill
Has all but shed its leaves
The crunching sound on the footpath
Beneath my hurried steps
Reminds me it’s another fall
It’s time to shed the old skin
And walk the same familiar paths
Look at it with new eyes
And I know there’s a spring
In my steps that I won’t lose
For a long time to come
For a long time ago I made mistakes
And I felt time stand still
For endless seasons as I tried
To find my way back to myself
And there are faces, fleeting
That still haunt me in my weary moments
But their echoes are long gone
There will be new mistakes
Oh, but they are welcome new mistakes
That won’t take a toll on my frame
Like the last time
I won’t shatter at every lie
And I will see past your coldness, this time
And the next time and every other time
At every turn
Till I see my comrades
Wave me over from the other side
The lessons of fall
It took me a while to learn
But I always learn my lessons well
Fool me once, fool me twice, and fool me thrice
This is my armor, and you are my master
Come next fall
And I might look frail and weathered
But my roots are stronger than before
And I will stand tall
And weather all storms
Come and see me in summer
And I will provide you with shade
In the burning sun
You weary, weary traveler
I never said you were the worthless one
I never said you were the lowly one
I never said you were the weak one
I saw all your flaws as if they were mine
Lessons of fall
As I stand here
And don’t you love the autumn wind
It’s a beautiful starry night
Just for me every single time

© The Wild Child Experiment, 2016.

Truce

It started out as a game, I know. It always starts out that way. The playful banter deteriorates into something else entirely. It’s a battle of wits, then it’s the battle of wills. And at the end of the day, neither one of us is the wiser.

I let you see me at my worst. I let you see me rage. And throw taunts. I am not the best version of myself. I am learning my boundaries and I am testing yours. I am tortured to think that you cannot see that. That you think I am not aware of my flaws. But I want you to understand that I am a mixture of my worst fears, my hopes and my dreams. I scream and yell, in pain, and I push you away when I need you the most.

I needed you, and I needed you to help me. But I did not want it. Desperately needing you to reach out to me and get through to me, while holding onto all parts of myself that I really need you to see. And where did that land us? In a whole lot of trouble. Because I see it now: I am a contrary and perverse person. I never really learned to say what I need or what I want, and now I have wrecked this. I have wrecked us.

I don’t think it is too late. How can it be too late? When you have seen me at my worst and I am just reaching out to you know to let you see me at my best. I have fixed the broken, damaged parts of me. I am not reaching out to you because I need you now, I am reaching out to you because I am whole. I have nothing more than kindness and good company to offer you. I am still not perfect. I am still not the best. But I realize the things that have been holding me back from you were parts of me that I needed to fix myself, without anyone’s help.

So this is it, this is the final call. This is the white flag. This is all that’s left. We can pick up the pieces and move on from here. Forward.

© The Wild Child Experiment, 2016.