kate e macneill

first night

your hands linger, the weight of them, and lift. those slow blinks and small nods. whispered demands and minute shifts in motion.

how to become smaller, safer, more hidden. how to hold still.

how to dim the peripheral maelstrom and let light.

we are in a room with stained glass windows and a small hammer in case of emergency.

there is a proverb for this, or an acronym. it is unsettled. it is warm.

ascension

the more i am left to my own devices, outside traditional family and relationship bonds, outside traditional workplace and institutional environments, outside mainstream media and status quo opinion, the more able i am to give no fucks.

i realize there is undeniable privilege contributing to the position i currently keep. it is also created by certain oppressions. the exposition of these intersections is not a blog post yet; it is a constant dialogue in my head.

for now, as i sacrifice more and more of the cobbled together strands of societal nicety i’ve held onto to be able to ‘pass’ (often wordlessly, without leaving footprints), i’ve somehow found more grounding, more foundation where i thought there was waste, excess, madness.

what i thought was rubble and ruin has turned out to be fertile ground.

where i once was scared to tread for fear of falling down the rabbit hole forever, i’ve found more conviction to keep going further.

all the dark places i’ve tried to hide and ignore for so long are warm and safe and open once entered and honoured.

once i forgot the warnings and looks of scorn from bystanders, i remembered why demons make the best dance partners.

you know what’s AWESOME?

NOT BEING IN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIPS.

wish i could time warp and explain this to my younger selves.

‘no, honey, when he says he’ll kill himself if you leave him, that doesn’t mean he loves you.’

‘no, dear, when she says her invading your privacy is your fault, that doesn’t mean she cares about you.’

‘no, love, when he says he wants you to spend all your time together, that doesn’t mean you should.’

‘no, kate, when you find yourself so angry you start throwing shit, that doesn’t mean you say sorry and everything will be okay.’

‘you’re already okay.’

to have these hands, you commented on their momentary softness, it is how you were introduced to me, as a man who works with his hands.

i imagine it could be how i gauge the seasons, summer roughness along bare back, polished fingernails against my lips. your lips as ever soft as ever you would come to me.

it is our skin, isn’t it? how we hold as if drifting together. when my dreams won’t let go of your hand for fear of drowning. the dreams that overpower my sleeping body to run races and cringe and crawl.

and you are so patient with my nighttime terrors. you shift around me, place your arm across me, calm my sudden breaths, and i am still once more.

i know you brush your lips along the spine between my shoulder blades, sweep the damp hair from my forehead.

we rarely whisper our words.

our hands hold, and bruised knuckles slowly soften.