#SummerComer #PoetryChallenge Entry #3: Of Love and Deep Kneaded Validation


I am feeling a bit off and this week’s poem captures it well. Maybe it’s creative, maybe it’s fiction, or maybe it’s creative nonfiction. Whatever it is I need it to be out of me without being so “obvious.” (Or maybe entirely obvious).

Regardless,

Check out last week’s entry here.

And then check out the rules spit fired at you down below to rejuvenate your memory!!

Quick! WHAT ARE THE RULES?

  • each post begins with the thumb above
  • each poem will be individually titled and labeled by the entry number in both the piece itself (at the end) and in the title
  • each post will include any background music used to “set the mood” which will be listed at the end of the entry
  • each poem loosely exists within the context of summer but is not strictly limited in constructing that imagery. I.e. it’s a summer project but may venture outside of that topic/theme-wise. 🙂
  • the goal: one poem each week from the end of May to the start of September under the hashtag: #SummerComer

Of Love and Deep Kneaded Validation

Trigger Warning: sexuality, sex, coming out, gay, derogatory references, self-harm, black lives matter (and you are so very loved)

her skin felt like

it was on fire.

like bugs were digging deep

beneath her flesh,

burrowing holes deep

into the tissues of her

organs.

 

a bad taste resolved to be in her

mouth,

metallic and thick,

like dried blood,

coagulated.

 

she only wished to be herself,

she only wished to love

another woman.

 

but the temptations,

the judgments,

the outsider opinions,

was flooding her system,

making her retreat backwards,

feel small,

feel infinitely

…. tiny.

 

she hated it.

she resented it.

but she still wasn’t sure,

so maybe,

maybe she thought,

it was for the best.

 

she just wanted to be herself,

in a world otherwise

cruel and indecent,

abusive and toxic.

 

but she wanted to shout from

the rooftops

the truth she felt

deep in her soul,

and still she was silenced.

brought into submission.

 

not that she couldn’t discover

who she was

or get support from

others who traveled the same road.

 

unfortunately,

it felt insurmountable:

this idea of coming together

face to face with others

who have struggled,

who have been unaccepted,

who have been attacked

and hated for what and who

they are.

 

but where they existed,

she knew not.

 

sure, she could find out,

but being online prominently

was more comfortable,

even though the cruelty

was more ever present.

 

it was harder to be called

a fag who should rot in hell

in person

than from behind a screen.

 

and still she was told,

told she fears,

that other people won’t accept her,

that other people won’t validate her,

and for whatever reason,

she felt deeply,

that she wanted to be validated,

she wanted to be supported

and she wanted to be inspirational

and moving and loved,

she didn’t know why though,

why she wanted this from strangers.

 

what wasn’t she getting at home?

what wasn’t she facing in her

everyday life?

why did she need to be wrapped

tight in bubble wrap?

why did she take things so personally?

why couldn’t there be an end

to all the suffering?

 

all she wanted,

yearned for,

needed,

was another woman,

to love:

to care for:

to be present with.

 

but how could she find them in

such a small town?

in limited resources?

in hard times?

 

she wasn’t ready for a relationship yet,

nothing romantic,

but it felt so lonely,

so alone

to be a young woman navigating

the world through the lens of

a broken china doll.

 

she couldn’t go towards her familiars,

her family,

with certain “personal” matters–

sex or repulsion,

dating or masturbation–

and these ate away at her

day by day,

unsure where she fit in,

her world collapsing

her frame of reference

dwindling.

 

where was she now?

who was she now?

where did things go from here?

and could she ever make it

out of here again?

could she ever find herself

a strong,

beautiful,

inspirational,

brave black woman

to love?

because she was drawn to them,

she imagined and she drew of them

for years,

envisioning this amazing

and wonderful black woman

out there in the world,

(would there even be many left

when the injustices slaughtered

them from this earth?)

careening through the ocean’s grace,

searching for her, too,

searching.

 

could she?

 

the answer didn’t

come clearly.

 

it never did.

Technical Aspects of the poem:

Entry #3: #SummerComer

Written: 6/5/2020

Mood Music: “Where the Shadow Ends” by BANNERS ft. Young Bombs


Hopefully I will feel better again soon. I may take some time offline to deal with my issues. I have TONS of blog posts that I can do and am trying to manage. Some will come out next week instead, unfortunately. I may try and read a book too. There’s one I really have to finish. So, I’ll keep busy and play some games too.

I apologize that I’m as off as I am now. Twas an odd family therapy session. I am down but I will not give up. I guess I’ll figure things out in time.

Hope you’re faring better than me right now.

I’m open to messages or comments if you are.

Stay as safe as possible out there, especially my black friends. Thinking of you and sending you so much strength, love, hugs and light. xxx ❤ ❤ ❤

Thank you for reading.

(I may even do some fanfic to be honest)