as big as the universe and more expensive.
When she opens her legs, she flatters the planet.
Taking you in short breaths or deep drags off the end of a long, hard stare, she sucks you in and through the black hole she's grown accustomed to living with - that elusive quality that takes up so much space. And she'll take you for a ride with the enthusiasm of a new millennium superhero, diving off tall buildings into the atmosphere, a free-falling supernova spitting atoms.
She lives in the fourth dimension where everything you've seen and heard is an illusion.
She also knows that at her most desirable she's supposed to dominate with supernova moans that humble the night sky. She's heard echoes about the evolution of relationships from mono to poly. Everything about her is already plural.
She was born aerodynamic, smooth like the milky way, but mostly too practical to do all the work when she doesn't need to. Yes, her corset is laced with burdens, her boots polished to a fine challenge.
She must be riding high, but she's a bottom eater in search of more.
The truth is, when you're usually in control it takes more strength to let yourself be taken than it does to do the taking.
An intergalactic insomniac, a shark who must keep moving in order to preserve the species and continue into the next generation. She's here and now...she remembers with a vengeance, fucks with resistance, and loves only when every other need has been tended to first. All of this comes at a price; the universal exhaustion of a hard-working, working girl. She's tired of strangers ordering her to 'smile.' Tired of walking down city streets as though crossing a grenade field and trying not to step on the wrong onlooker. She's perpetually stuck in a time-warp between bright high neon flashing eclipse and absolute invisibility.
Can anybody see her?
She's a time traveler moving faster than the speed of sound, linking past, present and future. Bridging across the galaxy between straight and bent. Between woman-loving and woman-hating. Between the pages of a book. She's here to remind the galaxy that is is possible to be more than one half of any duality, more than just an extension, an opposite: male/female. Rational/emotional.
Moving in waves - not steps - her posture is regal. her shoulders are back, she wears the dress before the dress wears her. or maybe not.
Maybe she can't crawl out of bed some days, can't choose the proper costume. She knows costumes and weapons are one in the same and she knows all too well.
The truth is she can make you comfortable in your skin even when you shouldn't be, and she wears great pain.
So beware. Up close, microscopically, she might not be what you envision. She might shock with her unkempt reality: clothes that haven't seen a washing machine in months, unshaven legs, breath that bites back, and teeth that wear fur coats. Wrinkles across her soul.
...older than time, made of miniscule particles insisting that even small matter, matters. She lives in chaos where random, inexplicable events defy logic, where unforeseen tragedy strikes when least expected. She's guarded by the protective rings around Saturn. Shielded by the armour-thick glow of the Aurora Borealis. Leery of newcomers. You can't label her neuroses, identify her predilections, or even predict what she would eat for breakfast. She's slippery, gliding through expectations like spilt mercury dancing down your leg, curdling and separating. She's been many people in many places but somehow always the same...
She knows exactly what she likes even when it's not in Vogue. She's attracted to power because it's like looking in the mirror.
So, don't touch too softly or she won't notice, and don't wait for an invitation. The whips she carries are sewn into the lining of her skull, the bondage she employs leaches like poison from her pores. Odorless. Tasteless. It can't be bought or passed on at a weekend retreat. You can't begin to imagine what sadomasochistic lifetimes she's consented to. Or, those she didn't. You can't know her by defining her parameters, testing her tolerance, or crossing her boundaries.
She has a voracious appetite for the truth and the truth hurts most of all.
She doesn't want to demand that you make her come - she wants to dare you. Make her come so she can go away, leave herself with the pounding pounding of your hand...Let the vibrbrbrbrbrbrbrations on her clit stop time.
She's woman enough to give it up for you and astronomical enough to make each explosion feel new. She won't break or fall to pieces. She knows no singular force is strong enough to reach her now.
she knows where she's going and never forgets where she came from: a single-mother-no-father-bi
she doesn't crave picket fences, station wagons or diamond rings.
Her people are flawed beyond repair so she's had to learn to love and hate simultaneously. Don't be surprised by the company she keeps.
she comes from way down low, on her knees. Pressed into dank mattresses.
The deep metamorphosis lesson that teaches young girls how to become cosmic women: impenetrable. Unflinching. Brazen. She keeps a good secret unless the price is too high and then she'll share it with the stars, naming one for every scar on the inside lining of her flesh.
She's a body housing infinite possibilities for women, some of them snuffed out at a tender age. Some of them raging till dawn. You only think you know her. she's a mother of a woman - the kind that makes Betty Crocker fall to her knees and ask for forgiveness.
She will close her eyes and give birth to new planets, an entire universe balancing on a single eyelash. She sees the future staring back at her with bloodshot eyes. Lips on fire, arched eyebrows, and bottoms up. She's the woman-child who never fit because she learned too soon not to be satisfied with mere mortals.
People are like fish, she thinks, they only grow to the size of their bowls. She doesn't run for cover, shade her eyes from the blinding sun, or expect to be whisked away on white steeds or black Harley Davidsons. She rescues herself. And she knows, every woman needs to be saved at least once in her life.
She never gives up.
Her first word was, "mine." Her second was "eternity." She's destined to be dream larger than life and because she thinks big, she is.
Sure she's a quantum figment of collective imagination, but she's also a femme of her own design.
And it doesn't really matter what name you call her by, it's the one she answers to that counts."
From Quantum Femme, an essay by Elizabeth Ruth
No comments:
Post a Comment