lanabotomy - Tumblr blog

[lanabotomy]

i heard once, that all mole and freckles are where lovers in a past life kissed you. i want to kiss you, on your face, behind your ear, across your chest; i want to leave you freckled and full of moles so that i may find you again in the next life, and we shall return the cycle. freckled and smiling, kissing all the spots we missed previously

[lanabotomy]

"if i am killed simply for living, let death be kinder than man"

[lanabotomy]

there are not enough hours in a day

to look you in the eyes

and really take you in.

i’ll pay tomorrow off

to keep her at bay

if it means i get another iced black americano

another kiss

another song in bed

we can build a life overflowing with “todays”

and call it the best deal

we ever made

[lanabotomy]

I am consumed by the false promises

That haunts the night

They get what they need from me

A warm embrace

And their satisfaction of the night

Their lust-filled gaze

And their greedy hands

Feel close enough to love

For me to keep wanting more and more

They hold me tight at the end of the night

And whisper sweet promises into my ear

“I won’t leave you. You’re my good girl.”

They kiss my head and tell me they love me

And I fall for it

Because my yearning for love

Is stronger than my yearning for safety

So I trek into the night once more

In hopes of those sweet promises

I know won’t be fulfilled.

So please, please, please

Hold me tight

In the darkness of night

And tell me those sweet lies once more

Before I rejoin the darkness of night

[lanabotomy]

I love poetry. I love writing. I wish I could write something profound and beautiful and life-changing. It takes skill and time, both of which I lack. So instead, I write every little thing that crosses my brain as I sit in a library of a college I dropped out from. Maybe one day I can publish something, but that too takes time and skill. I want to be a good writer. I want to be successful, but everything I write is just Marilyn Frye and Margaret Atwood blended up and shit out. I have no original ideas. I am nothing. I am simply a composition of ideas and thoughts and emotions that has been created by my environment and my idea of what a “pretty girl” is. That girl who reads philosophy. That girl who is deep and poetic. That girl who is walking art. That girl who listens to cool music and dresses cool and looks cool. Everything I write sends me into an existential crisis. What is me? What is the persona I’ve created? What is beautiful and what is ugly? Does my life even belong to me? Do my thoughts and emotions belong to me? Am I truly a conscious being? Or am I just existing and stealing the thoughts and emotions of those around me? Am I truly just a consumer? I don’t know… I don’t know…

[lanabotomy]

and i dont know why

but when it comes to you

the time within each second

feels a little more infinite

and touching feels a little more

special

and maybe thats just because

of the way your hand rests so easily in mine

or maybe its because

the sweet taste of your lips

lingers for a moment longer than most

[lanabotomy]

The Female Rage Consumes Me

“Female rage,” sounded like an oxymoron for the majority of my life. The characterization of the words alone create this kind of juxtaposition that seems unrealistic. Female; womanly, kind, soft, gentle, all these words just to portray this image of innocence and purity. Rage; ugly, consuming, violent, the word itself feels inherently masculine. And yet, I watch and listen as the rage fully envelope and consume me.

I don’t know when the idea of Female Rage enraptured my brain, but I could say it started when I read a silly little book by Margaret Atwood called The Robber Bride.

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”

The idea that I can never fully be myself without the ever lurking man watching me, sexualizing me, consuming me like a piece of media only to be spat out once I fulfilled his satisfaction, it disgusts me. To worsen the matter, I know deep in my soul, that if I wasn’t desired, I wouldn’t know who to be. I don’t even know which parts of me are real or which parts of me have been created in pursuit of this ideal “male fantasy” I have created in my head subconsciously, and that enrages me even further.

Is the rage I feel even valid? Maybe my rage is actually just a deep rooted fear, a fear of what has or what could happen to me. I remember those lurking eyes on me since the age of 9, taking out the trash around 9PM in my galaxy leggings, those men yelling at me, asking me where I am from and where I live, what plans I had. All I could do was run in fear. I remember being 6, my mother’s boyfriend holding my hand and telling me that he’d marry my mother one day, what felt like a threat, those peering eyes undressing me, that hand burning a hole through me, as if the ghost of his perverted touch was still there. Or maybe it was those days in school when I would get groped, almost daily by the boys, the teachers said I was more developed and to expect those things, to wear less revealing clothes. I wore star wars shirts, lord of the rings shirts, and DC clothes. What was so sexually appealing about that? The worst memory of all…. I was forced out of my dorm room while 5 drunk guys stayed with us, none of them my guests. I remember just wanting to sleep. I remember one of those guys being weird, and avoiding him all night. I was so tired that night, and yet I didn’t want to sleep. He snuck into my bed, put his hand over my mouth, and did what he needed to do to satisfy himself. The unwanted touching, the unwanted stares, the unwanted attention. I feel like a walking piece of meat in the land of hungry wolves; A temptation to be consumed.

The rage that consumes me comes from a place of fear, and a place of knowing that I cannot be helped. One in three women experience sexual assault within their life, one in five experience rape, and yet only one in one thousand rapists face persecution, and that is only from reported cases. More than 2 out of 3 cases go unreported. Those are just the basic statistics. Imagine them in other situations; homeless women, women in 3rd world countries, women of color, women in the military, queer women, women in prisions, women in situations where they are helpless. I cant even begin to fathom the stories that would pile up beside me if I was able to speak to every woman, every feminine person, everyone who has a story.

To be so helpless in a world that doesn’t support me, it’s simply sickening. And I live the “Land of the Free, Land of endless Opportunities.” I feel the rage of my sisters, or the women around the world who know and understand me.