The Hips of A Secret

This is the original free write, which I like on its own. The second piece is more of a finished product but still in a rough (and I mean rough) draft phase, it is also meant to be read out loud. So excuse the format and run on sentences.


The goal was for it to be perfect.
Almost real, almost pulsing, almost beating.
You asked about it today- my heart locked away in the garage.
You asked why it wasn't finished and if it had chambers and veins.
The last time I touched it I cut it open, just beneath the aorta.
I want it to told something- pennies, incense, secrets like Pandora's box.

But I can't touch it.
Won't unwrap the hard clay.
Afraid that I will notice the little imperfections.
The shadows won't hang like the hips of a secret or the veins might not be beautiful like a 
perfect Sunday afternoon.

I haven't seen my heart in weeks because I just might break it.

***********

It's always startling to see your eyes, it's the eyes they say that give you away. Well that, and they say, that boys rarely blush. You blush and stutter and I hate your eyes. Mud and coffee ground brown, wounded lashes with heavy lids like sighs. It is always the eyes that give you away,  that  thousand yard stare, the way they buzz around a room, flocking exits and shadows and baby, with eyes like that, the tattoos- the awkward combination of love notes and bathroom stall scrawl- ain't fooling anyone. I remember when you could flirt with those eyes, and San Francisco had you by the balls.  You were wrapping limbs around concrete and high ways, tip toeing through the days first mimosas and morning glory holes. Jacking off to Gershwin and feminist theory, blowing Foucault blind and washing it all down with a tall boy and Judith butlers apple pie. You were queer as a Monday is long, confident and lean sandwiched between the tenderloin and section 8- in those days you were packing, in every sense of the word.

and now look at that weak chin and those shaking and dirty hands that can never quite settle. Somewhere in the years between San Francisco and Seattle, you tripped over fault lines, lost your confidence, your wallet and your favorite pair of shoes. And there's a way that your lips twitch and tremble, when there is something you want to say and every fucking time you swallow and look away. It's obvious by the way you stand there, that you hate your body, belly, hips, hair and thighs and I know somebody told you once that your scars are beautiful, that struggle is beautiful, and hope is beautiful. and it's clear with you standing there a naked little bird that can never land and unsure what to do with those hands, that you want to be beautiful.

and how many cc's does it take to get you to understand that gender is a universe and we are all stars and that you can (think/feel) ugly things and still work on that heart you are sculpting out in the garage.

and I know the goal was for it to be perfect, almost real ,almost pulsing, almost beating. And she asked about, why it wasn't finished, if it had chambers and veins. The last time you touched it, you cut it open, just beneath the aorta. You want it to hold something- maybe pennies, incense or secrets like Pandora's box. But now you won't unwrap it, letting it gather dust and cracks. You are afraid of the little imperfections- perhaps the shadows won't hang like they do on your favorite Sunday afternoons, or the veins won't curve like the hips of a secret, and you haven't seen your heart in weeks because you are too afraid to break it.

So instead of standing there, and looking at me -unwrap, your heart, take your tools, carve in every scar and secret, carve in the space between who you were and who you are, take your memory's and nightmares and wedge them in with your clay. Stain it in truth, whiskey and dreams. And if you break it, build another one, and this time- build a spare.

And we are back to those eyes- stone, cold and sober, and that shivering body and head of nightmares, empty handed and heartless. The truth is-I just can't stand to look at you any more. So please step away from the mirror, turn off that bright light and go and build that heart, even if you break it.

**************
and for the record-  I have eaten Judith Butlers apple pie.