from me, to you

i'm a spoken word poet, who also creates prose and other things. posts whenever i make something new. thanks for visiting.

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I like to think I am soft. I smile and I knead my hands into my stomach to keep bile from rising. Yes, I am palatable. I keep all these wants where nobody can catch scent of them and I was doing so well but then he told me what to do. And then he told me what to do and oh God they won’t stop telling me what to do! And what can I do about it? Heaven forbid I talk back or else I’m a crazy bitch but the line between crazy bitch and doormat is invisible and one false word and I trip over and I keep my mouth shut Oh I Really Do In Fact I Do Nothing Else.

My name, my real one, is four syllables. But that’s only the first name. My Full Name is eight syllables. A real mouthful. I wish I used it, it holds such power. Makes you think twice about saying it, makes you think about whether your tongue is worthy to enunciate all the letters that make me up. The one I use is so throwaway. So nothing. The accent makes it worse, you know, it all slurs and becomes monosyllabic and all of a sudden they talk to me not like a woman but like a dog. But I suppose, dogs are a man’s best friend. And I always will be One Of The Boys even if that means sacrificing my femininity because this is what I have to do to get anywhere right? Get on my knees and suck off whoever because the only way I will rise is by shrinking and placing my head firmly under a man’s polished shoe God I Am Sick Of It! 

I swear one more push and I will scream I can’t do it they keep calling me my short name they know that’s not what it is. Don’t call me it. Better yet, don’t call me anything. Keep my name out of your mouth. It makes it harder to tell me what to do  I know what I’m doing I’ve been doing it for a while so let’s flip the switch. Do what I tell you. I am a thing to be admired I know this because I made myself this way and I refuse to stoop any longer I will not bend over to lick your boots I will shove mine in your face until you do the same I am bossy like that. I won’t be palatable for you I am not for your consumption thoughts of me consume myself and you don’t know this. You don’t know shit about me. You just know my name. I won’t let you say it. It’s mine.

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

“Just try to not think about it so much, yeah?”

- “You know that’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“I know. Just try.”

There is no one way to bleed there is no one way to ache there is no one way to dig in to the marks on my thighs to peel the skin off the boomerang-shaped burn on my forearm. I love the way the raw skin glistens underneath.

I cover my face in glitter and watch as it transfers all over my body.

My body

You can’t see my ribs anymore, for the first time in years actually.

There’s no outline of abdominal muscle, my hipbones aren’t defined. This body is covered in a layer of fat. I think I’ve gotten fatter. I think this is the fattest I’ve ever been. Fat and lovely. I trace the pouch over my belly and smile.

There is no one way to recover.

I can’t not think about it, it was four years of my life. That I can barely remember: it took my memories, and I can’t get those things back. So I will make new ones.

I will succumb to the hormones within me and:

scream  

laugh 

fuck 

cry

repeat

Oh and I will repeat. There is no one way to live and if I want to disgust you then I will. Because I may overanalyse and overthink but I am alive, no? And there is only one way to do that too?

Don’t tell me how to recover. I have come this far, I will go further, I will do it on my own.

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I haven’t been to see Charlie’s Angels yet. I’m not going to. I am a feminist. And I know that Charlie’s Angels will never be the woman-centric masterpiece I wanted it to be. I wanted blood and sex and women being women with all the gore added but the trailer promised none of that so I’m not going to see Charlie’s Angels. It will never be feminist. Not because of it’s portrayal of Woman versus Weapon but because of the apostrophe. The angels. Belong to Charlie. Can you fucking believe. Three talented, strong, intelligent, capable women who have proven themselves time and time again still have a male superior to report to. God, it aches. 

But it’s true. Men think they rule the world. And that apostrophe lets them keep believing.

It aches but it’s true. I am my father’s daughter. I am my boyfriend’s girlfriend. I am always the subordinate always the apprentice I have spent so many years on this burning planet where is my share of the power? Where is it? So much is dictated for me but I have decided my whole life and I will decide more while bleeding and screaming and I will disgust many but enchant many more I am a woman I am what the Angels are not. I belong to no one, I decided this today.

My mum is on a conference call. They are all Men. And she is talking and making them listen. I have never admired anyone as much as I admire her. She exudes a calm fire, but a fire nonetheless. A blue flame a cold hot. Mine crackles much more loudly. We both burn.

I know he doesn’t listen when I talk. I don’t care. I don’t speak for him. I don’t speak for anyone. I speak for my own pleasure. I love the sound of my own voice. The lilt. The way my tongue curls over the words. I am well-spoken. That makes me a threat. He knows that I am intelligent enough to contest him. So he doesn’t listen. But he doesn’t know that I notice. I notice and I collect every single thing because I am a woman who is meticulous and owned by no one and begging for someone to question that freedom so I can slap his straying hand.

Men think they rule the world. They don’t. At any moment it could be snatched from under them and little things like apostrophes provide a blanket. But I refuse to comfort them as I have decided I belong to no one. I am on my own an isolated flame which sings orange and red. I am beautiful and I know this. I burn like the rest of us.

- Bea

I was going to review Charlie’s Angels for the school paper but I didn’t end up seeing it. I wrote this instead.

[bea-vs-world-blog]

When you fall in love they never tell you about this part: how it hurts when you’re both hurt as you feel a joint pain. They don’t tell you because it might scare off new lovers. And that was good judgement, it would’ve scared me.

But there’s this apartment in central Wellington. 10th storey, panelled floor, white walls, gossamer and glass and every tattered book these tired hands have thumbed through. Tomorrow I think I’ll run there, and spend the rest of my time in the emerald green slip dress of my dreams. On that Juliette balcony I’ll cut up some mango, or strawberries and chocolate. And on that little balcony I would really live.

It’s hard, it’s so hard to solve all my problems when the common factor in them is myself. I’m too much and too little at the wrong place in my life. My emotions aren’t written to be in our little story, but you know it isn’t easy, I can’t just cut them out.

Instead I’ll go to my Wellington apartment, where you don’t have to look at me, where I can be by myself. And when I get hungry I’ll eat all this poetry I’ve been writing, to keep it from piling up next to my double bed. And in the linen sheets I’ll hum to myself, and I’ll sing and I’ll sing until I’m lulled to sleep.

The place that we work offers free therapy, I got quite excited when I found out. As the place that we work has you, but I was foolish to think you’d solve all my problems when in fact you’ve made new ones so therapy will do.

And when the sessions get too much I’ll go to my Wellington apartment and slip back to the sleep of which I never left. In this dormant phase I won’t dream, I’ll fill my head with thoughts on how to keep my eyes shut. And when I came in from my Juliette balcony I forgot to close the doors, my Wellington apartment is uncomfortably cold.

-Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I will be the girl of your dreams, and bury this injured heart elsewhere, somewhere you can’t see.

Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

If I could have anything, I would take back the image you painted of me, and I would hang it up in my room and look at it until it becomes me.

Hair ever bright red, lips always upturned in a smile. I will eat out with you but never gain weight. I will be everything you ever wanted.

And you’ll gasp “What a change!” as I blow off my friends and studies to be with you. I prioritise our love over everything else, and my stomach aches but I swallow its acid.

There is nothing important to me but you, and you make sure I know that.

I work out 5 or 6 times a week so I can get a flat stomach. We could even go to the gym together like you wanted. It’s strange that you brought up weight loss knowing I was anorexic but it’s fine it is so fine I’m doing just fine love isn’t love without a few problems so I’ll ignore this one just like my stomach aches.

Instead I’ll stare at that painting of that beautiful girl and wonder what I have to do finally live as her and exist in her skin.

I let you sit in my arms, I let you do to me what you want because you know that I’d do anything to make you smile. I was independent and you said you liked it, but you clearly didn’t as with every waking breath you render me dependent on you.

Now I’m in a daze, everywhere and nowhere, I can’t remember what I ate and my stomach won’t stop aching.

I ignore it along with everything else

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

We’ll get by / And each night we’ll cook and sing / And I’ll make you laugh because it’s such a beautiful sound

Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

Remember when I told you everything at the back of that Burger King? I tore out my stomach and let it lay on the table, bloodied, and pulsating.

You saw the worst part of me and took it.

Placing it in the gap between the seats in your car, next to the wrappers and crumbs.

It is still with me, sure, but now it is acknowledged and instead of reliving it we can share the sundaes you bought without me having to ask for them, we can get a gym membership to counter our Burger King habits, we can do whatever it is two people in love do. 

Caramel and banoffee crumb dust your lips, and they stretch into this smile you have when you look at me.

What I would give to live entirely in moments like these.

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I introduced you to Vietnamese food

You ordered the same thing as me

You had to use a fork, I think you were scared to embarrass yourself in front of me

That was our first date

Now three weeks later your eyes sing as you tell me all about the “Korean Dining Experience”

After spending the day in your warm arms it’s salty but refreshing 

You let me have the last dumpling

I let you keep my leftovers

You let me try some of your Raspberry Pepsi

I let you refill my glass

And this delicate dance this sweet sweet back and forth the silence between mouthfuls: I wish to ingrain it on my tongue forever

Food is no enemy, it is some kind gift to be enjoyed with love and Kimchi

Sitting across from each other

We share

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

Not everything needs to be grandiose, there is so much heart in these little things

Baby kisses shared between seats

An arm around a waist

A jab to the stomach

Love feels delicate and I hold it so close

My pen aches to write of you, but no prose can quite surmise the way I adore you in all entirety 

I hope my actions can show what my words cannot

Pour sweet “I love you’s” into every smile because I’m not quite brave enough to say it yet

But with your nose pressed against my cheek and my hand playing with your chain

I will get there

I love you.

And I think you already know

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I close my eyes and remember your face in detail/ I swear my fingers have touched every inch of it/ And they will do so many times more

Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I went to weigh myself this morning.This was different to all those other times, it was conscious. I wanted the scales to confirm what I already know:

I have gained weight.

For me weight is an extension of the mind, it is a sixth sense; I feel it before I see it. And I was in the changing rooms when I actually saw it, my stomach poking out of a tight dress. Part of me wanted to feel bad about it, but the rest of me was indifferent, and then all of me remembered that it was a dress from H&M and sweatshop clothes are not worth my tears.

I am a medium to large. 

Sometimes I struggle to find my size in things.

I weigh more now than I have ever before. 

But also: I’ve grown. I’m taller than ever before. I have more muscle than ever before. I have more blood pulsing through me than ever before. I am smarter and stronger and fiercer than ever before.

There is more to me than just fat, you know. 

I am a multitude of many different things All forming together into this mass that is duplicated by the H&M mirrors. Recovery lets me look at those reflections, recovery lets me look without judgement.

I don’t necessarily love or understand myself, but I do acknowledge my own existence, and quiet acceptance is as good a feeling as any.

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

I am a woman I want

I want so so badly

I want to rip the stars from the sky and bring them into my arms so that I may own them

So that they may give me the strength that possessions do

And in this strength I am weak

Stretched along the length of my carpet sobs breaking through my voice 

I am not invincible

I am no goddess

There are no flowers between my thighs I am not your Gaia

I am a woman I want

And I want and I want and when I get what I want I want more I will never be fulfilled 

I am hungry and ruthless

A great glitter-filled void

I swallow myself whole and spit me out again

My self-orchestrated rebirth is a nightly occurrence

In this way I emerge from dirty pillows pure

I am clean and ethereal

I am ugly and disgusting

Dripping in sweat and blood and mucus and vomit and in doing so I am undeniably feminine

I am a woman when I’m more gorgeous than ever I am a woman when I’m tangled in sweat-stained sheets I am a woman when I bleed through my jeans 

I am a woman I want

To scream into open air

Steal something meaningful

Be called my full name and be known as more than a giver of life

As there is mould to the fruit there is filthiness to the female and in these wretched palms I clasp both

- Bea

Originally performed as a spoken word piece.

[bea-vs-world-blog]

Joseph Antoine Ferdinand Plateau invented the illusion of a moving image, Kevin Ireland wrote The Big Bounce Theory, I have blood on the side of my thumb from a hangnail that won’t go away 

We all have a magnum opus

This internal significance and external insignificance, the zooming in and out of Ad Astra

I am nothing I am everything

Watch as I do both

Dripping with meaning I am rich in it

Living is an act of defiance

No longer one of survival but one of joy; to consume food is one thing to eat is another

Let me toe the line further

This rebellion spilling from my lips I speak in tongues I never learnt: I taught myself

In the same way that I teach meaning to the empty classroom at the bottom of my bowels, I teach the feeling of the doctors hands when they first held me

And the lines their palms ingrained in me 

And the way that there were 360,000 other babies born that day but none were ingrained quite the same 

Their hands form the purple streaks on my thighs

My body pays homage to all the meaning built around me

My magnum opus is being alive 

My magnum opus is being

And in being 

I am art

- Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

Can I trust myself in any way? What can I trust if not myself? You present yourself as my solution.

Bea

[bea-vs-world-blog]

When a wasp stings you in the grass next to the beach when do you feel it sting?

When it hits you? Or when you see it?

Does it take a while for the pain to transfer from one nerve to another, from your second toe on your right foot where you stood on said wasp, to your brain where it registers said pain, to your mouth where you cry out to your dad about said wasp and said pain and as vinegar mixed with sunscreen the meaning of my tears changed

From wasps

To venom

To everything because it’s been a while since I had a good cry

One that makes my eyes stings and my back shudder and my chest close up

I’m not sure what makes a good cry good especially when it hurts

Is there such thing as a good pain?

Pain can be worth it, I’ve been told, I’ve had my lungs and stomach torn to shreds then been asked “Where does it hurt?”

It’s impossible to tell you where the pain is when I can’t see it, and what I can see is impossible to miss

I am a testament to every knot of pain in my chest

My knees and throat are covered in bruises from bending over the toilet never actually vomiting never quite being able to bring myself to shove my fingers down my throat

Did you know that in Year 8 I could count my own ribs?

But in Year 8 I was only nauseous when I was sick now it’s a constant: this monotonous droning of acid reflux and the dizziness that follows it

My self-hate manifests in sickness manifests in sick thoughts manifests in Monday morning and lowercase truths spinning around a party I wasn’t invited to

What is the most common reason for first trying alcohol?

Is it because it looks fun?

Because you’ve been told it’ll make you fun?

I carve fun into my thighs I vomit glitter into my lap I dance until my feet bleed I want to go home but I sit in this buzzing silence

Sometimes I know I need to step back and say it’s not okay, but I know I’ll never do that

How could I?

Everything around me is on fire and I will never change

I am burning and burning and I am walking qith one plodding step in front of the other

In this passionfruit monotony nothing is sweet but they can never make me bitter they can never make me stop walking

I have walked out of every doctor’s office alive I’m still alive Is this living?

Is this really it?

And in that case, am I doing it right?

I need a reminder that living is more than just a slow decay

That there is no stinger, just venom

How do you fix a pain that you cannot see?

The answer is simple:

You feel it

- Bea

Originally performed as a spoken word piece.

[bea-vs-world-blog]

Watch, as with pen in hand/ I twist the knife deeper./ I am cutthroat in a new way.

Bea