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Staging my seppuku
I was Medea plotting my revenge
on the phallus, men, patriarchy
Only that revenge is not an option:
embracing social norms is, perhaps the only choice.
But what is normative?
A woman is a copy of a copy of a copy.
Second-rate. Third class.
I was shut.
I had no voice,
no essense,
no self.
I don't want to be a copy.
I am a subject.
I want to be heard seen read.
I am Frida. I am Karen Finley. I am Sappho.
I want a positive clear crisp voice. I will whisper no more.
I am Cindy Sherman. I am Virginia Woolf.
I want to use my blood and paint
my reflection our reflections.
I will write
until blisters form on the tip of my fingers and
I will not stop even when
the troupes of white shirts come running down my back.
I shall turn these white shirts
grey, blue, pink, black, purple. Colour of sorts.
I am Judith Butler, Sarah Kane.
I undo my gender, my sexual identity, my preference.
With soap and sponge
I peel off my mask.
With words and gestures,
I don on fresh clothing, reinvent myself.
I am Re-invent.
I am Mother, Daughter, Sister, Girlfriend, Lesbian.
But I am still Woman.
am
a
privileged
woman
my
nausea
is a
privilege
protected by
patriarchal imperialism
unmutilated
we drifted in
the north
european sea
buoyed by
strings
of norwegian words
we sat
at the level of 300s
and
reveal our hearts
wanted
for
a
very special
trip
to commune
with
Mother Nature
on a
big
wooden
ship
- Noah's Ark -