My Lover Should Have Found Me Sooner
My lover should have found me sooner, so much I wish I could be loved harder As many there were of my afflictions, my lover, from the morning ‘til night Beyond past all the days groveling inward
To the folds of skin hills and valleys tumbling, expanding and continuing
Must spend time whispering healings into my heart
Then I can remember of my once being human and dancing
But for all my dancing, I was trapped tied around and around with ropes stiffly with a Flimsy sour ribbon on my head
Is it shameful? I know nothing but the weeping and gnashing of teeth
Ashamed, like a whore, but then
I couldn't know you
You saved me now
You hold me still
Please let me dance for you, because only to you I am without feeling
the skin-crawling repulsion and bile I tasted when other eyes have stared on at me at me I wanted them to look at me, even though I hated it because
Trying, I am trying for them, but not wanting to, not understanding that I didn’t want to
This is what we do to ourselves when we have no love
If no one can revere me, in awe of my nakedness and of what I am Then must I hide or go crashing and screaming out, naked, dancing Free myself
I love you
I love you so much
Whether clothed or unclothed
The brain is the biggest sex organ
My lover lives in there, waiting for me
Black and white ink and milky alone in the bath but then a memory Of my twin dancer, my lover, submerges me back down deep
into a melting warm pot of red, gold, orange Thick and tasty as honey
Specks of the black and soiled white dissolved I, still insanely the same
Havoc and gentle
Body naked or not
Honey, your bare skin reaches the heavens, so overflowing
I cannot contain it, nobody should
Yes, you are a world of suffering and sadness
Of recovery and gladness
Whoever curses your body, your worth, your soul, your spirit
Tremble in fear for them
It never fails to reflect back on them a ten-thousandfold...
Wait in my imagination, a person who knows me in entirely, who knows me well Blesses my skin, blesses my hair, my lover who was patiently waiting
Breathes me in in shock, eyes widening and closing gently when I am seen naked And they blink open and I gaze into the eyes of myself
Eat naked, eat clothed
Drink naked, drink clothed
Feel the lines of the pencil and paint of Greek people
And you will see
That the world needs figural art
To destroy the visceral emptiness of a Korean skeleton
For fragile grass blades, for grande tree trunks wrapped in ivy
The brie and green grapes and prosciutto
Are so good.
~~~
I saw the obscureness in Cecily Brown’s painting of naked human body parts, and I picked out a connection with the person whose bum is out, like hiding from the world, too embarrassed. The figure buried in bright, golden yellows, scarlet-mixed with-pink reds, and light pastel oranges is to me, escaping to thoughts of self-compassion. I fell in love with the syrupy, textural colors that are so warm and positive to me, like sinking into pretty, liquidated makeup or a pot full of honey and spice.
The painting is my mind. I am the host of my body, not the other way around, which means I keep my body and my mind safe. I do not have to plunge deep into the inky black and white sections and embedded molds of blue signifying anguish, lostness, and helplessness leading to self-sabotage. When I mention food and clothing, I want the reader to take away with the fact that lookism culture has ruined the two great joys of life: I argue that clothing is for protection, for expansion. It does not make the rules to define me and squeeze me into something other. Food is not a discipline, it’s a gift.
Stemming from vestiphobia, a branch of body dysmorphic and socially anxious tendencies, I stand by the truth that the human body needs to grow and thrive in its natural shape like any tree or blade of grass (both existence unquestionably appreciated, just beautifully sitting there). My performance value in every situation in which I feel exposed and susceptible to critical judgment requires a healthy mind, that is trained to wrestle free from those fears and constrictions repeatingly.
For example, I reference in my poem dance. When I feel like I have to perform or be seen as desirable or impressive, that is not right. But my love for dance is always at risk when I go there, to that popular, messed up place called self-hatred. I felt like a “whore” chasing after others who couldn’t complete me because I was unloyal to my lover. And by the end of this poem, we see who the lover is, with no prior motive, purely and lovingly delighting in you (you!). This painting was a spoken message of appreciation for rendering the physical body as something miraculous, complex, and utterly whole.
