fannah indigo palmer

[fannahindigopalmer]

I’m writing a “novel” on Wattpad for the first time, called The Play. https://my.w.tt/30ElZ2SZmcb

It is an experimental novel about gender. The protagonist, Perhaps-Girl, gets introduced to the world behind the curtains of a play she is watching, a world owned and ruled by women.

[fannahindigopalmer]

I saw a sunrise pressed together, between a finger and a thumb. Like a little wood-plucked berry, its yellow sap set free by the squeeze. Would you like to be my squeeze?

I saw a sunrise the color of alien blood, the color of Tibetan monks in crowds—an iridescent orange. Any word ending in ‘-escent’, like an essence, is a type of magic. Crescent moons and phosphorescent lighting.

I saw a sunrise that I wanted to run to, without my feet making any sound. You my sweet squeeze: I wanted you to follow me. I wanted the sea there to see—at the end of all things breathless, us, panting, luminescent—what we could do to it. There’s nothing as smooth as waves that I know would submit to a touch. Nothing like a sensitive lover. Nothing as bright as the color of you.

[fannahindigopalmer]

...purple buildings that were never painted purple;

I see you still, glimpsing behind;

I know you wanted to say goodbye

but space rules can't make you seem to leave quicker.

I await the pace of day,

I await winter,

and meantime I enjoy the windows of non-purple purple buildings

reflecting mental content.

' '.

[fannahindigopalmer]

poem a day 1

you were there--

clean cut, razor sharp

knees touching under the table  (wonder if you knew)

and I looked at you

and I saw forever

and I drank, drank, drowned myself

instant fever -- just add water -- so I did.

you were there. you were definitely there.

[fannahindigopalmer]

When will I start classifying as a grown woman?

Maybe when my nails are not cut like a left-handed guitar player’s, having made up for biting them broken. Maybe when there’s not a Mont Blanc of laundry in the corner of my room and I try to compensate for it by partially cleaning the rest. Maybe when I stop bumping into hard corners of things and shouting: ‘Why! I’m hurting enough as it is!’ Perhaps grown women don’t half-ass their way through life feeling sorry for themselves. They deal with being alone--they thrive on it. They do what they need to do. They care for themselves, and especially not for trifles with potential day-ruin voltage.

Not sure if by this definition I know any.

[fannahindigopalmer]

In my mind, I take off my shirt in front of you. I do it casually, because I don’t give the act a second thought. But once it’s off, you stare at me a while. There’s a look on your face that I can’t give a definition, until a slow ‘wow’ leaves your mouth. It’s almost cartoonesque. I smile modestly, stick out my tongue and walk over to you. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed and I climb onto your lap, your hands touch me everywhere, slowly discovering the territory that keeps you in awe the way I never expected was possible. You squeeze my flesh in places, and every time you do, a rush of electricity goes through me like my bones are made of wire. --- In life, I take off my shirt in front of you. I take a little extra time doing it, sucking in my stomach and curving my back a bit. It stays silent and I look over to you and you’re texting. Noticing me staring your way, you look up and smile awkwardly. I sigh and glance back at myself in the mirror. Then I join you in bed, where you’ve already covered yourself with the sheets. I make my way over to you and try not to bump into you too much. My bones are made of ice.

[fannahindigopalmer]

(defend/defer)

I am almost scared to share some parts of my life with certain people, even though these parts are so important to me. I am not ashamed-- far from it. I am not insecure about my opinions, either. But what I am insecure about, and almost ashamed of too, are the opinions of some people I know. Or at least, their ignorance to understand mine. Their unwillingness to agree with me, even though it is not merely an opinion, it is truth. 

How can you deny that women are harassed more than men? How can you deny that minorities-- whether of race, sexual preference or religion-- encounter problems in their daily lives that majorities simply don’t? How can you keep trying to avoid to be called some horrible name, but not do anything to help the cause? I’m not calling you a racist, or a sexist, or a homophobe. But as long as you’re not willing to hear what I have to say, to acknowledge the problem and to help it get solved-- even if it is just by speaking about it-- how much better are you?

You are more afraid of the labels you think you’re being assigned (which you’re not) than of the effects of the actions of people actually carrying these labels. You are no racist but racism exists and it is destroying communities. You are no sexist but women are not yet equal in this world and that’s not okay.

Even though maybe only three people will read this, I am still almost scared of what they’ll say. ‘I know that it’s a problem’ / ‘It’s not my problem’ / ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard so much about this already.’ That’s because it’s still going on. And it is everyone’s problem. So there. Defend yourself how you will.