What does it mean to survive? Think blood. Think power
tools. Think family gatherings. Think of the body reclaiming itself. Think
eventual light. I have pulled myself through twenty three years to get here. I
have pulled myself through body hate, through love gone wrong, through the eye
of a needle. I have suffered to get here. I can show you the poems. I can show
you my family photographs.
There is a promise that it gets better.
It, whatever it is, does not get better
We get better.
We get tougher. Stronger. Calmer. We laugh when the fire
eats its way up the wall. We shrug off the old lovers’ wedding photos. We
smile. We like ourselves. We hum to the radio. We remember to eat. We thicken
at the hips. We soften in the eyes. We sand our edges down. We undress of our armour
and we stand defenceless at the frontline. Knees already half-buckled. Pink as
the inside of a cat’s ear. We ready ourselves for the battle. We do not always
win, but we give a good fight. We brace ourselves for the impact, absorb it
when it comes.