Intro #3

I'm not here to listen to my blood fall. I'm not here to watch my footsteps falter, to see the spread of hesitating bones and goosebumps. I'm not here to cry out, "God, god, why have you forsaken me?" but I'm not here to thank him either.

The wind will not bend me over to fuck me. My roots may not be visible, but they are pulling into the earth and she's a generous lover. I'm digging up home, I'm digging up community, I'm digging up callouses on my palm and dirt under my fingernails. Love and iron stain my hands and the water doesn't rinse off my idealism. They told us, "sink or swim." They told us "white or black." And I'm walking the fence, gray painted on my chest, nipples out, screaming, "love AND war! Him AND her!" They may call me radical, but I'm eating it up. Words feed the revolution and they're not empty calories.

I stand tall. You're carving your name into my skin with a pocketknife because you want to be remembered as alive and the lightning will not crack me down the middle. My bones are not hollow because I was not made to fly. I was made to last. My arms are rough. And raw. My voice is rough. And raw. There's no flowers budding on my fingertips. My spine is crooked and the vertebra collectively spell out love in Morse code because that's what god was thinking when he peeled death off my back.

But I'm eighteen and I've burnt my taste buds too many times. I'm eighteen and I've slammed on the gas too many times. Quality and quantity both start Q, U, A and we're mass producing babies without feeling because that adds to the cost. Give me something I can die for. Give me something I can live for. Give me something seventeen credit Suzy will stop studying for. I want something that I will lick off my fingers because I don't want to leave any of it behind.

I'm not always practical. My mother never taught me to follow the recipe. I forget what day of the week it is and I substitute pink for poison. But I am brave. I am hopeful. I am honest.

And today, that's good enough for me.