“Experience is not what happens to you; it is what you do with what happens to you.” Aldous Huxley
I come from white walls white thighs white mother crust of malady and abandon.
I come from culdesac dead ended romance with calm and how to collect a thousand fireflies in just one summer with scoop of blond hand and curious wrists. Spell out help with the death of smeared illumination.
I come from guilt. Guilt of murdered lightening bugs. Guilt of murdered hair follicles through bleach and rusted scissor clip. Guilt of murdered childhood through the erasure of memory. Guilt of each kiss claimed by mouth without manners.
I come from New Jersey. Concrete and sod. Hangings and ambulance whispers. Suburban boredom collapsed into self-harm. That time that time that time that time that time that time that time that time that time. That time there was a need to gallop body into medicated bones and bruise away hatred of self.
I come from stages and poets dusted and banned. I come from Ginsberg and Plath and Kate Bornstein and Gertrude Stein and Bukwoski and Mapplethorpe and Serrano and Valerie Solanas and every teacher that tried to teach in a way that kept the windows open and doors unlocked.
I come from appetite and birth and love there was some love [once] and Brooklyn and boroughs and grass stains and hyper.
I come from shift and gender and clutter’d queer disrobing through each climb of love and affair.
I come from that place within the body that thieves. Call it basement. Call it butcher shop. Call it handsome. That’s where I derive.