My Mental Milkcrate

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had a blog...

For When She Asks

This is a time for us. Women’s voices wrapped around you and me, daughter. Banishing the men and sitting in our own selves. I will tell you about our strength, resilience.

When did “ductile” become pejorative? To be stretched thin without snapping. To become a wire and hold together. To be shaped and reshaped without losing an atom of matter. Nothing gullible or docile about this property, remember: your form is not what you are.

My girl, we do not break. We bend, we remold, we stretch to the edges of the sky. And stay so malleable that we may coil around this life until beauty is the only possibility.

Where do you keep your muses?

Thirty-seven years old, happily married, mother of two. And still holding one imaginary lover.

The first one is the best. Cherished and remolded over the years; pressed through playdoh; sketched stickfigure-esque again and again, never quite the same, but always mine imperfect.

Once upon a time, we told stories about love, abstract and cerebral, coded in longing—crack me, hear me, believe me, stay stay stay—unbidden forbidden wordplay flirtation.

His skin is walking around somewhere without me, unregrettably. I keep the part of his soul I created, and let it sweep my hair back in any breeze.

Men with(out) Restraint

All my life, my consent has remained. Fully within my body. Yes, boundaries bent in non-verbal wanderings. But respected inside the please-do-please-don’t tension of sexual exploration. These men (these boys!) with mossy, growly laughs catching on vocal folds resentful of release. I cavorted unviolated, as if the murky entitlement of masculinity could not catch me.

This should be my right. Instead of misplaced gratitude to former lovers. Accept my acrid thanks for preserving my faith in you.

Am I so rare? Fear instilled statistically. 1 in 4, 1 in 4 women. But how many men perpetuate this caution? 0 for 10, these men of mine, too small a sample to extrapolate. Did they—in obscure corners, with other women—remove restraint and break into bodies half-closed and uncertain?

Survey, please: would you, given time/opportunity/immunity, make her take it all?

Tipping Point

If this isolation has any purpose, perhaps it is to force these hands to transcribe something. Anything. Unconnected or unrelated, but present. A frenzy of phrases tumbling around my feet. Come to order. I’ll pen them in.

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