Esprit dEscalier
Aïcha Martine Thiam
Z, picture us in your
tiled sea-foam green
bathroom. Ticking off
like so the little box
for “COMPARING NAKED
BODIES” in the book of
Female Intimacy Initiatory
Rites. You rumbled loudly
you are so lucky, my
skin dissents, couldn’t
swallow my bruises’
stains like yours do. I
wish I could bleed in
secret, I wish I could.
Oh, scratch that. We were
12 year old birdbrains,
we never spoke with
such sophistication.
But the gist of it was
nearby, that day. You
were going to have it
hard in life, and I
might, but at least it
wouldn’t show. You went
see, this right here.
Yesterday I bit your
forearm and it doesn’t
come. And I tough-gal
swaggered around the room
chanting “nobody asks me
what is wrong” like I’d
been wishbone-favored.
You almost sold me on
the dream, Z; only you
could do that under the
glossy pretense that you
loved me so much, which
must mean that you knew
and saw me best. You
looked at me desiring
yourself, and I took in
your areolae, the color
of my favorite Starburst,
thinking mine (already
deflated in anticipation
of the years to come) were
a bit more like sea-weed
flaked around its fringes.
Sometimes when, idle,
I pinch my chilly teat,
I get the taste of candy,
tart but sweet, and my
gums water. I wonder when
you think of sea-weed, if
your mouth puckers too.
I haven’t summoned eyes
and the ensuing candor
in heaven knows x many
years. Nowadays: I’ve
taken to brutal snubbing
of Commiseration. When
women want to bare to me
I say “this ain’t the
Pain Olympics” and carry
on. Nowadays: I say “don’t
dare ask me what is wrong.”
Though we were discussing
different kinds of bruises
then, though I still love
the dream you sold me, “you
are so lucky” shreds my guts
every day. It’s been universes
since. Wherever you are,
allow me this one pettiness,
Z:
you
were
wrong.
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