Dear shame, an open letter to April
I’ve written you a lot of open letters lately. But today I declare in a soft, yet confident voice, get thee behind me. Shush. Fuck that. No more. You persist, but I ignore. You mock a generation of women like me — too much, not enough. Too late for you to be yourself. But wait. Listen to those who talk back to shame in its illusive forms. Who dare to declare themselves good enough, in-progress always, works of art.
No more, we shouted together. Retelling our stories into being; believing the contagion of voices. I believe her. I believe we. I believe in us. In community. In life. Here together. Fitting, belonging. Becoming until our seams are worn and our fabric tattered. We are here together. Being. Belonging. Together — ourselves.
Until our poetry becomes a chorus of voices and signs and symbols never before experienced. Heard. Understood. Hear. In this place. Fit. Belong. Linger in this hyper-reality. A 1-act play. This is an invitation, to be here in this present moment sharing truths we needed as little girls hiding in their rooms until the howling stopped. Until the violence paused. Not ended. We mourn together, until mourning comes with tears of piss and vinegar.
No longer alone. Here in this place. Together. Fitting. Belonging. Becoming what we never believed. We are anomalous survivors, you and I. Unicorns and Nessie. The less than 1 percent of folks, these women like us. Flapping with joy. Soundlessly clapping. Hands back and forth, bracelets jingling. Our tapping fingers sing in eighth notes. We join a symphony of voices.
Your own. My own. Computer generated, voiced, signed into being. We are here now, for one another what we always needed. Ourselves. A community of stories.