|9th Aug 2012✧10:5922,435 notes
Far northern humidity
Has me standing under the cascading chill of my aunt’s showerhead,
naked, but somehow still sweating, as though the very act of being here
is something my body has forgotten how to do.
Humidity demands obeisance in dress and manner,
but even the flowing looseness of my lightest summer dress
feels like the compression vest of my teenage years,
breasts uncomfortable against the bones of my chest.
Despite the slow drift of years, here, I am a body of awkward teenage limbs navigating between
outfits, always away
from the murmurings of a family gathering.
An aunt’s words bite through the sticky air to meet the placating tones
of a cousin. Above them, through a window, I shuck on a shirt that
billows away from my body in time with the turns of the overhead fan,
the fabric glancing along my still damp skin.
This air reverberates around me the way it always has,
but here I am but a foreign entity on ancestral land. This country,
this kinship, I’d understood when I lived here. But they say big cities
sap that out of your bones, your blood. I’ve been a
long time in the big city. The places and the people I have
been, they coalesce at the back of my throat, to burrow
deeper into whatever embrace the depth of my chest
can offer to those things that I love.
Away from these people, this place, I told a girl: I’ve never been fearless in love.
She’d stroked my arm and then my face, and said, ‘you are, you are.’
I told a boy, I’ve never been fearless in love, and he pressed
his chest against my chest, and said, ‘Darling boy, few of us are.’
What I meant to tell them both was: I’m not sure I can ever take you home.
Go check out my writing blog. It’s pretty bare for now, but hopefully I’ll be less lazy about updating. (Critiques encouraged.)