Katherine George and Arielle John - “Prayers for the Daughter of an Ex-Rapist”
“I bet she never told you you had venom in your blood. I pray you never find out. But you look just like him now.”
CUNY Brooklyn, performing on semifinals at the 2013 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational.
Oh my god, oh my GOD.
Nothing beats this kind of intimacy, when it’s about 3am and it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. There are no words or intentions, you’re just happy lying next to each other knowing that you never want to do this with anyone else. Just to consider that you’re each, essentially, a bag of bones and organs and muscles, and yet you’re both so much more than that because you’ve found each other and suddenly everything makes so much sense.
You write on being alone like people take the air out of your lungs, like there’s not enough for all of us and you’re afraid to be too close, in case they take yours too. Like your bones are glass and your skin is made of peaches and rose petals—like if they brush too hard…
“When they were to be married, my grandmother was almost 15, but still 14. I asked if she was afraid. Yes, she said. Not of the man—of the marriage. They made that trip to the ROM because there had to be official consent. For a 14-year-old girl to sit in a car being pummeled with stones while acutely aware she was about to move towards a significant chapter of her life – that is a fear that I cannot even begin to understand. I remember being 14: my hair sticking to the sweaty nape of my neck as I ran after a bus or a friend, afraid of only loneliness. How can I begin to understand what she must have felt? She was running towards a very different thing as she sat in that car. She was afraid of loneliness of a far greater unknown.”
I was commissioned to write a piece about my grandparents for NLB. My grandmother is chinese & my grandfather is Malay (Javanese). They got married during a period of time when racial tensions were very high due to Malaya & Singapore’s difficult political relationship. Click here to read. <3
When I’m Gone / Corrosion in the Pink Room by Mira And Mirabilia Images
From time to time people say to me, what a talent you have, or what a wonderful gift, and I smile awkwardly or make self-deprecating jokes, not because I feel unworthy, even though I do, but because I have never felt like I owned anything I wrote, it’s true, I wish I did, I wish this outpouring of truth and emotion came upon command, I wish I could switch it on at will and dazzle the way everybody seems to think I can, not even because it would make working and meeting everybody’s expectations of me easier, but just the fact that it would let me know for certain that the best and truest parts of myself truly and truly belong to myself, but it never works that way, this thing I have lives where I live, but it sits me down and refuses my command, it ignores the pleading and the clasping of my hand, I still myself and put word after word and I wreck myself and put word after word, but still resolution is useless and execution is useless and all there is is waiting on epiphany, the things you work away at are empty and bare of blood and never never good enough, and when it does work you never remember how it was done, no you never remember how it was done, all that it leaves you with is the memory of confession, the faint hint of catharsis, and then not even that, and then only the distant glow of the sullied work of a strangely familiar foreign stranger.