Intimacy

I want the words to come gushing out from the pages of my notebook. A giant wave, angry and deafening, destroying everything in its path. I want the same relief I get from self-harm or alcohol, but without the telltale signs. If I could dance like you I’d let my body tell the story of every pink raised scar, every mark he left on me. My naked skin glowing, radiating determination, all strength and pride, no demons hiding in the darkness behind me. I’d ask you to be gentle and patient with me, and to hold your tongue every time you feel like lashing out. I’d ask you to draw an invisible boundary around my body with your fingertips, and to be the one who says no, please stop when my mouth says yes, go ahead. I’d ask you to listen with your eyes. But I don’t ask, I don’t talk about my wants and needs, I’m too afraid.

Tough Love

The Somali boys love soccer more than anything, I watch them play until it gets so dark they can’t make out the ball anymore. They talk loud and fast. Their tall gangly bodies full of nervous energy, as if being constantly on the move is what keeps them together. Sane. When I first arrived I thought we had nothing in common but our history of violence, but that’s not entirely true. They look grown to me, so much older than their real age. Their maturity intimidates me, but out there on the soccer field they’re just kids playing. Experiencing childhood, the way it could or should’ve been. It’s strange living in an all-male environment, being around all these guys, cocky and self-assured, certain of their part, their significance, their place in the world. It’s all an act, but they act their part so well, and I can feel myself withdrawing into my shell. Becoming the quiet, invisible kid I was certain I had left behind. I apologize for being alive, for taking up space, for breathing their air, that’s me. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that you don’t want to settle in?” my friend asks. There’s no special treatment, no being an ”only child”. There’s no L spoiling me, letting me do whatever I want whenever I want, but I wonder if they know how much I crave rules. How much I crave parenting, boundaries, structure. I understand why prison is not such a bad thing for some people. They wouldn’t survive in a different environment, they wouldn’t know how. I feel like I had more common sense at 9 than I do now. I knew my place, my responsibilities. I had a role, a part to play in keeping my family together. Now I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s expected of me. I’ll stay out late, I’ll get drunk just to get a reaction. I want consequences, I need tough love. I’m not that fragile, I won’t break if you punish me, but you might get through to me, the person inside the shell. Maybe I’ll never be able to understand any language other than violence. The way my dad ”spoke” to me. He’d know how to get my attention. Everything seemed crystal clear then.