No fracking… oh shit…
Let us forget.
Try to pretend.
But Mount Vesuvius
could happen again.
A caldera this time
we’re all ashen.
Oooops too dark?
Put on my cheer.
Damn if only I liked beer!
Merry Christmas stay warm.
I left some gluten free cookies for you!
When I was around him and he freely commented upon my color. I hated him. Because why? Gee, because grade school had been that way?!
I was again the only white person in the room… and everyone considered me different based on skin rather than heart.
“Oh my god, did you really just say tortilla like that?”
His brown was something I saw and embraced. I did not ridicule his likes and dislikes now or ever due to his coloration.
I can assure you I do not like Panic at the Disco because I am a “white girl.”
I am a white woman.
My grandmother was red.
And you, my ex… can braid your hair all day and night and get Sahaptin tattooed upon your skin, because it is in my heart, I do not need such overt displays of appropriation to disassociate from my truth. My truth simply is: TRUE!
I guess this white girl taught him to speak kindly of drunk Indians?
How many fucking white girls KNOW Indians? Or socioeconomic stats in relation to?
See me for what I am, and I will see you.
You appropriate, I dissipate.
You stand with a braid upon your head and I have them in my heart.
You can be called what you like and listen all you want but don’t ever fucking call me a white girl and then pretend you are an Indian. You would have had more honor than to cheat on me when the feathers were still bound together. You are more American… more dead… more nothing than any color I could know.
You may have indigenous blood but it is not Sahaptin, your tribe was not adopted.
It was raped by Spaniards. As you raped me. Maybe some Spaniard saw the look in the Indigenous eyes and let up?
You are Mexican, half of you. All of the Indigenous tattoos cannot save you. Only you. Or maybe a white God?
Hm… I’d pray.
This white girl will meditate.
Meditate on peace and wish that for you.
Because your drunken chaos needs a new fucking view.
This Mexican woman you are now with: I hope her Dad understands you.
Warmth in what feels like winter.
"You’re a big girl," he said.
Is he calling me fat?
Oh, a woman?
Fuck you… I was big when I was little and I have been little to accommodate the bowl around me. I broke that shit. I told that shit carefully and calmly and when it didn’t listen I pleaded, begged, walked away. Left.
I will stay away.
Because he will always be a little boy.
A big little boy.
He was always big.
He was always strong.
I was the water dog handling earth and fire each day.
I fucking broke, but I was born broken and put in glass.
He was born with a big head.
A Cesarian section.
His always problem.
My problem was relentless care.
Never loving myself and loving the other too much.
Having positive sex twice and with one.
Failing another… wanting to learn.
Coercive Condescending Fuck.
I have only ever coerced a mother fucker to care… not to fuck anything.
So, fuck that.
Fuck my care.
Let it go, self.
Care and raise what cares back.
It always still hurts to say fuck at all.
Fuck that! Fuck my confined thoughts and confinement.
Fuck his fucking fetishes and my vaginal vanilla modesty.
Fuck my feet? Fuck you… Fuck yourself… or, a plastic pussy?
I am not a judge.
I am left alone!
And then fucking pretend.
I don’t have to.
I am not ashamed for any mistakes.
I am only ashamed I blamed myself for so long for the others and their faults.
Masochistic Miserable Me no More… Maybe we can fuck now?