I start to open, begin to trust, and then I’m hard without knowing it. And I break. I’m so hard. I protect in the hard. I fight in the hard. I breathe hard in the hard. I get back to ground in the hard.
And I just break. I’m not being true. I can’t seem to want it bad enough. This freedom thing that we seem so damn interested in. I don’t want it bad enough. I still want money and a house and lots of trees growing and my life even though its speeding towards a tired trajectory. I don’t want my own freedom bad enough. I wonder what my great great grandmothers would say. The ones who stood outside in freezing ice storms to protest women not being able to vote. The ones who left their husbands in a culture of women who stayed. The ones who broke their promises so that I could know so much freedom. The ones looked ahead. The ones who believed in a future for girls, for women, for freedom for all. I don’t care about this freedom. I want to stay in my clothing. My breasts hurt for freedom. My nakedness wants to touch the guy in his dark skin and rip through this old story, this old suit I’m wearing.
But I keep it quiet around here. I keep it cool. I keep it warm. I keep it closed.
I know many fought for my freedom. Many people did over and over… men, women, children. For rights that I have and don’t give a shit about. I have rights that others don’t. I spit on them when I wake up, check my Facebook, make some toast and sit down at this damn computer.