i have been thinking a lot, you know, about my body as an apology. how i wear it haphazard. i tell myself this is polite; i go out of my way to choose an aisle that doesn’t have other people in it, i skitter to the edges, i always get out of the way before the way is even an issue. i don’t take center. i say “oh, sorry” about turning a corner, even when i haven’t inconvenienced anyone.
this is polite, i crunch myself and fold my legs and partition my comfort. i take the back seat, hold my body like a handbag tucked close to me, ride trains in corners or in crevices or in careful distribution of limbs. sit on the edge of a seat, apologize when you invite me in, keep scurrying, scurrying.
this is polite. i eat less in front of people, feel embarrassed about the idea i’d over-indulge, turn down what i want for what i know is accepted. say i feel bad you had to see me drunk dancing, because i have to be drunk to dance. always keep to walls. hunker. cross my arms over my chest at midnight while i’m taking out the trash. feel raccoon, ashamed even in the shadows of it.
the night is a good one, the air is crisp and someone somewhere is singing a song i like. i tilt my head up and the moon is glorious. what if someone is taking a picture of me right now. what if when im in a towel in my room on the second floor, someone sees me, somehow, from the road.
this is polite. what if i see someone i know. this is polite. oh, sorry, oh sorry, oh, sorry. i read an essay about observation changing behavior on the quantum scale. i read a study about observation changing behavior on the individual. yesterday when a man touched me without my permission i said, “oh sorry.”
this is polite. how come i’m always the one getting over to the side.
gracieabrams
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