(Pismo Beach, California)
if i could remember what side i left my language on i would tell you about words. how they carry a weight—a history, both about me, about you and about all of us. i would tell you that you can say any word you want. it doesn’t matter if it’s beautiful, or obscure, or hard to define. you can say any word you want. if i could say any word to you i would say goodbye. but my body would need to leave too. i would tell you about boundaries. that sometimes i don’t set them very well, and then i let people cross them. i would tell you to stop. this is my hand on your chest pushing you away. i would tell you that i am more, always more and never less and when you didn’t see all the things about me i would know that that says more about you, than it does about me. if i could remember what side i left my language on i would make you listen, not just hear and repeat and respond, but feel. feel what it’s like to be disempowered and reduced to flesh, reduced to an object. but instead i sit and wonder. maybe i didn’t leave my language on any side. maybe the language was the wrong language and it wouldn’t of worked anyway.