My body is not an apology.
My body is not an apology; It is triumphant if anything at all.
I haven’t been so loving to her skin.
I wasn’t taught to; yet here I am, beautifully marked.
I haven’t been so loving to my fat.
I wasn’t taught to; yet here I am, flawed to perfection.
I haven’t been so loving to my spirit.
I wasn’t taught to; yet here I am, unruined.
I haven’t been so loving to my intellect.
I wasn’t taught to; yet here I am, unearthing my truths.
I am blooming from the grave.
I was programmed to believe that to be a woman is to be a shameful creature, and I must exist to be tolerable and capable of bearing, or risk living a baneful, wretched existence, on the outskirts of a world committed to catering to idealized perfections, and cities constructed off the backs of eating disorders, and nourished by poisoned wells, filled to the brim with tears and collateral damage.
The grass is only greener where you water it; so America demands more blood, sweat, and tears. It is owned, there is a price tag on our souls.
The soil is soiled; nothing grows here. It is strictly prohibited. We must feed our hungry hearts lies.
Growing up a girl:
The media says believe what you see, we will define truth for you; and only listen to half of what you hear, but don’t take our word for it because we dont stick around for the fall out- we are just the messengers… HANDS UP, DONT SHOOT!
Don’t shelter them, they need exposure, OUR FATHER’S FATHERS said. It is what my parents taught me and it is what my parent’s parents taught them. I’m still alive, aren’t I? Trust me.
I wouldnt lie to you.
I have no reason to lie to you.
A blooming lotus in the mire of womanhood:
But, I do have a reason to lie on you, slut. My rape is going to be called is this what you were wearing when the “incident” occurred, if I report it. My rape is going to be called a lie when I tell my father who will no longer look me in the face, My rape is going to be called it’s all your fault once my story is spread through the mouths of society. My body is going to be called an apology every time I can stomach looking at it in the mirror in what is now going to forever be the extremities that are minutes, hours, and days after the thing I can only speak about in metaphor or not at all some days.
Our supposed representatives get to govern what happens to our bodies, and the theft of them because “I have the electoral votes from the collective ‘they.’
Because, they call me king, president, ruler of the free world, congressman/woman, senator, CEO, Billionaire, I tell you what your name is. I call your body an apology, woman. I will fuck your boundaries and your feelings, and tell the world you are a disgrace, a liar, a nasty woman, a lecherous beast. When the truth is, I am disgraceful. I am nasty. I am a liar. I am the beast, the predator, a victim brandishing a freshly printed name tag of SURVIVOR. A poisoned well, who creates more victims with every-trust me…”
We are the swift undercurrent, the swelling breasts of a very pregnant mother earth, full… full.. full of true nourishment, the kind that can only be found through digging deep and sifting.
Cataloguing and separating what must go and what must stay.
Giving myself the neccessary permissions to make those decisions for myself.
Being an aware, intuitive, reasoning, feeling, permeable membrane.
Remaining soft in combat, because it is what I choose.
Recognizing a war zone when I see one, especially within, because it would be a million steps backward, and detrimental to close my eyes hand grenades after being blinded for most of my life to what love is and what love is not.
Licking my wounds in public, shamelessly, because I am free to do as I please, heal as I please, and in my own time frame.
It is time to heed the call to step fully into ourselves. None of this one foot in the grave business. Being self serving isnt a bad thing when it is done with the intent to become well.
Being well isn’t shameful, and neither is your body.
My body is not an apology.
Loving yourself is revolutionary in a world that is built and functions off the barely ticking concave heart of humanity.
Susan M. Conway is an acclaimed fiction novelist, blogger, and mother of two. She resides in Northeast Georgia, where she lives a quiet life. In her spare time, she enjoys gardening and cooking for her family. Susan is a passionate and fiery social justice warrior, mental health advocate, and mentor in the BDSM, Kink, and Fetish lifestyles, striving to empower, embolden, and open healthy dialogues about a variety of social issues.
You can read more of her writing at The Ginger Post