A note for the reader: This poem will include topics such as the purity complex, the male gaze, objectification, fire and related destruction, earthquakes, and landslides. A lot of things are glazed over but the poem hints at emotionally charged topics and situations. Please take care as you read, and take a break or stop reading if necessary. Thank you.
What is an explosion? An explosion is like writing a book when you were only taught to read books. An explosion is like removing all the books from my shelf written by White men, because I spent the first 25 years of my life inhaling a similar strain, and I’m tired of it! It has limited me. The doctor told me that I breathe too shallowly. All of the time…
I replace the embers with perspectives that laid a foundation that allowed me to be grounded. To grow roots in earthquake-cemented cracks. To write in chalk on a smooth surface. An explosion is when you knew the foundation was shaky, but never thought it would crumble.
An explosion is when letters stolen from the mail are anonymously dropped off one day. And someone reads them and calls on the phone to talk. To apologize. An explosion is when something happens outside of me that changes my world, that I didn’t have to instigate. I just slept, and it happened. I just read, and it happened. I just curled up in the rain, and it happened. I just fell asleep to jazz music, and it still happened. The sun brightened one day, and it warmed me. I was already wearing a sweater, but this was better. Maybe this is what it’s like when we pass away. Good things continue to happen. And sometimes even now, we can rest. And watch the universe…do its thing. Good things are inevitable.
You lived inside woodwork walls eaten slowly by termites. The trees grew through them and it became more of a bird sanctuary. And then one day the house was gone. You kept wondering why that one kid you used to know burned his house down. And someone else burned an old church. You don’t understand it. I wish I could wash your fears away but I don’t really know why either. I wipe rose water from my cheeks and smile because the sunrise is nice. Even with some smog. I drink from my water bottle. Passion fruit. I put it down and close my eyes, rubbing my face.
Everyone must know that fire is hard to control. They must know that right? The landslides are dangerous too…I had been told to fit in, and not expect much. But then something finally changed. Shifted. The water changed shape. The current became droplets. I opened my eyes and took another sip from the water bottle. It’s like, this morning is my life. It’s lasting and I don’t mind. Yesterday, I watched you in the pouring rain. I didn’t wave. I walked away in bare feet. My soles felt the water. Peach tea. Then rose water. Then I smelled gardenias. I touched the cement ground with tear-stained hands. I dried my hands on the pockets of my sweater.
I opened the door and let myself exhale. I closed the door behind me for the last time. This was the end of a chapter. There was a distance. I knew no one was following me. I had a day to rest and drink orange juice. I am house-sitting, and no one is coming by, unless I invite them. I have rolls baking in the oven. Hmm…I smiled, nervously. I locked the door, only checking once. I knew you weren’t coming back but I couldn’t quite believe it. I laid on the floor, with my arms outstretched like a carpet snow angel. I eyed the cat and the cat eyed me. Snowball landed on my stomach and purred.
I sang a song to myself. With no one watching. And not as a statue, or a bag of flesh, or an innocent fantasy, or your purity complex. That’s right, your purity complex. You were the purity complex. You were the museum curator. I was never part of the exhibit. I have always been watching. Omniscient. Maybe I know exactly what goes on. My gaze has never had the privilege that yours has.
Years ago, I took note of what is not said when you stare deep into my eyes. I see only emptiness. Like a crater in the moon. And I lament that. For two seconds, and then I’m done. I’m actually going out to the beach this evening to catch the tide, low at sunset. The moon is mine again. Even though you were only a child. You used to ride bikes.
I wish I could do that. Without being afraid. For now, I sing to the cat, a sanctuary with no one watching. I guess it is possible to live life without being gazed upon. What am I then? The mist? A concept. A tree! I am definitely a tree if nothing else in concrete. I have always wanted roots. Now I feel confident because the roots will exist regardless of how tall I decide to grow. And thorns protect. No one is watching. I can grow leaves. They bask in the sun. They are everything I’ve ever wanted.
When I presented as cisgender, I was considered beautiful for a time. After I straightened my hair, plucked my eyebrows, and moved to a Sunland filled with heavy industry and barely trees. Where my hair got highlighted in the sun. Effortless. Pure sunlight. People called me a statue “Like the ones in museums!” They say. “Like a painting!” “Like a portrait!”
I try to take it as a compliment. It’s not working for me. You’re not working for me. They don’t say these things anymore, and it’s kind of a relief. However, I still soften my voice at the pharmacy counter and in the beauty store. I go to buy blue eyeliner to scare the neighbors.
I want to write chalk messages at the mall parking lot. I feel the most dysphoric at the mall, and yet I am constantly asked to go back there. Go back. Go back. Go back. Like in my childhood neighborhood. Neighborhoods. Not all of the houses are still there. Of course, because this is like a tv show, they rebuilt the house exactly as before. A pleasant set…There. It’s perfect. Like a set designer had all the details? Down to a potted plant knocked over. They propped it back up. For a better appearance. I really just wanted someone to ask him why he burned the house down. Does the why not matter? Then again if someone burned my house down, I wouldn’t care why. I don’t know how people sleep at night knowing they have destroyed someone.
How do we hold humanity? Some people are….too much. How do we craft a narrative? What is harmful? What is clear-cut, right, and wrong? What is nuanced? What is safety? What is it to be protected? Are only the attractive protected? Are only the upper class protected? Or is it all of us, living as islands who experience every storm alone?
Snowball curls up with me when it thunders, but I only got her two months ago. In fact, she is still a kitten…You know, I am a maple tree, grafted with rose grafted with a berry bush. Unlikely but real. Not on the map. Barely visible, arising from under clouds. The roses are rooted. I am here, I have always been here, and I will always exist. But I do not work for you. I am not here for you. I do not exist for you. I am unwatchable. You can land here. He has fluttered away.
Forever.