019Collar
been really wanting to write these last few days. a lot has happened that i feel like i wanna put into words, n I dont quite know what those words should be.
017 is still sittin in my drafts. i hope ill finish that one or at least steal from it later.
i think the issue is that i dont know who to write for right now. by all means I could fill pages upon pages, if i was keeping it private.
but part of the bit is that i dont wanna. i enjoy putting fragments of myself on display here, forming some kind of mosaic, insect-eye impression of whats goin on in my head.
i usually stick pretty hard to my value of not hiding things. if something is gonna be on display, its on display for everyone or not at all.
i dont say anything unless im ready to risk the whole world hearing it. when i started a new job three years ago, i told them the dog collar is part of who i am, and non-negotiable. i dont hide my sh scars unless they're very new, which isn't often anymore thank god.
recently tho i feel i've had to learn the hard way how to keep portions of myself hidden.
its not like i haven't had that lesson forced on me before, by anxiety and circumstance and selfishness. some of my best and ugliest poems are about it.
sometimes keeping secrets is a form of self harm, i think. it has been for me, at least.
this is the first time i can remember that i've actually learnt the lesson though, and been able to practice it willingly. for a given value of 'willingly'.
its so easy to hurt people without meaning to. especially when you're made of fragments, ceramic and glass and steel. beautiful at a distance, or when held carefully. catches the light. fascinates the eye.
cuts open the hand thats carelessly misplaced. tears at muscles that can't relinquish.
for the first time, i think i even have some things that i want to hide. my own special secrets. whispers in a mirror room.
thats new. usually nothing i do is worth doing unobserved. i fucking love an audience. puppy just wants to be praised, or at least noticed. is any attention good attention? is that why i keep tearing up couch cushions? i dunno.
but now, it doesnt always feel like a mistake to sit quietly for once. its comfortable. its simple. i know how i feel, and i don't need you to know unless i decide.
there's still some things i do wanna shout from the bottom of my gay puppy heart though. and those... being quiet about those feels like being muzzled. held back by a palm over my mouth. a leash that my snapping teeth can't quite reach.
but its so easy to hurt people without meaning to. the leash and the muzzle are for them. snap your teeth too hard, and they'll close over the hand that only wants to be held.
so im learning, i guess. ill whisper instead of shout. i can do that after all. no barking indoors for puppy.
i wanted to finish here on some sweet and snippy metaphor, a return to the bit about my collar being mine, part of me, non-negotiable. not like the leash and the muzzle.
i feel the shape of it, n i dont quite know what the words should be.
doesnt matter.
its my collar. ive got no owner.
but hopefully i do have a home where i belong.
💚🩷