Content Warning: This is work surrounding sexual violence and healing. Please protect yourself. If you are a survivor of sexual violence and are in need of support: In the US visit the Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network or call 800-656-HOPE (4673). In Canada visit The Canadian Resource Center for Victims of Crime. Other US & International help lines can be found on The Buddy Project.
Hello, My Beauties.
Today, I wanted to talk a little about Erotic Eloquence and why I’m choosing this space to share poetic expressions of passion, love, and sex with you. But I feel that, as an author, a poet, a human, and a survivor of sexual violence, it is irresponsible to not address the way sexual violence has shaped and continues to shape us.
I’ve made it no secret that I am an incest and rape survivor. I was taught, from childhood, that my body was not my own. It took thirty years to be able to speak about my experiences and another ten, in therapy, to own my healing.
There is a new language of reclamation being born. Those of us who are survivors are claiming our bodies, our minds, and our histories through sharing our experiences.
It is fucking terrifying and beautiful, like the birth of a star.
The two pieces below speak to my experiences and to the reclamation of power.
Be Well and Be Wonderful.
What Came After the Wolf & the Woodcutter
No one talks about the woodcutter
& how he left Little Red Cap
drenched in wolf’s blood,
dizzy from the strokes of his axe.
After he slew the beast, the dullard
wandered off to wash his hands
heedless of the huntress that had emerged
from the dark inland sea of the wolf’s corpse.
Little Red Cap, consumed & delivered,
tracked clawed earth & scat
to the shrouded thicket
where the wolf spent his off days.
And without so much as a whispered
reproach for the dead, she struck a match,
& burned the wolf’s den to ash.
The fire licked the dirt
while she danced with the flames,
her shadow whipping the trees
& the tender stalks of her arms
scaping the belly of the night sky.
I chase the pleasure that glimmers
in the tips of my fingers
and the slick muscles of my cunt –
I claim each shiver,
owning the rasp & drag of heat
coiling in my gut.
This is my language.
A foreign tongue I will teach you,
should I spread this body,
out for you to caress,
If I choose,
I will spill open in your palm.