My body is speaking to me
The tongues of my skin
Speak languages that do not reach my mouth.
Whisper sweet nothings, to which I can not reply, the words caught in
Trying to translate beautiful
a noun, a possessive word
The word is stuck in the spit of man as he yells at me
The word dies, becomes synonym with his–with plaything
Becomes notes in the orchestra of catcalls that illuminate every city street I have ever walked in.
And yet the tongues of skin, like sirens calling to Odysseus
Urge me to hear them, to learn their dialect, to find the flowers in words
Men turned have into knives
And yet I remind them,
That language is a weapon
Reared against anything feminine, to invalidate it, to hide it, to pretty it up for consumption
And yet, my skin speaks– vehemently of these reclamations
Of taking words weaponized and weaving wildflowers
Of the glory in survival and how to survive we must teach ourselves to speak–
Because the world, the man, thrives on our on fear
And so as I lick my wounds,
My skin, she sings my a lullaby
My mouth finds the hidden curves of her words and mimics them
Moves them around the roof my mouth, down into my diaphragm, and lets them rest in
Between my ribcage, where they safe but soft, but strong, but mine
About Lennix: Queer. Trans. I believe that art is the only way to recreate myself authentically.
I am a student at Simmons University and I love pastels.
(photo provided by Lennix)