TW: Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment
My thighs say we don’t want your praise: man on the street corner, man in the parking garage, man in Walgreen’s while we’re buying tampons.
My thighs say we are every man’s wet dream even when we beg not to be. When we close like locked jaw. When we ask nicely, when we beg him to stop. When we never ask for your eyes or your hands or your mouth.
My thighs know bruise. Beckon. They know quake. Crave. My thighs have been shame. Fear. Still are most days. My thighs know to tighten, when to stop all the space taking up. My thighs know empty. All we do is doorway for this body’s ability to woman. We have always been this. Access of this balancing act of woman.
Do we make you uncomfortable? Is this too much praise, gospel of this body? We don’t know small. Our everything is too big, monstrous. Sturdy. We stay the stilts that carry this woman body. Armor. The pillars for this heart, this everything ‘woman’. My thighs say you don’t know shit about envelop. Coil through the quiver, pull the love into you like we do.
My thighs say leave the lights on. We spend a lifetime hiding. Shake out of this shame. We are the ruthless twins. The too strong to not run towards everything light. My thighs say don’t tell us shit about what we say about this body. This heavy body. It is light. It is light. It is ours. We, gatekeepers, we ‘welcome committee’.
My thighs say come into this, when we say this is ours. All of this, ours.
'Thighs' - Desiree Dallagiacomo
I did this interview for a project my friend Hanif is doing for the month of April. I answered ten questions about my art and my world and I’d love if you took a second to read it!
Slam Richmond is such a great scene! I loved performing there! Maybe next time I’m there we can give each other hugs!
Come to New Orleans!
Or invite me to perform in your city!
Or stay posted for upcoming dates near you (expect Bay Area and Denver and Maine and DC in the near-ish future), wherever you are!
Happy Monday, Tumblr.
"Forgiveness is release of all hope for a better past."
I. The summer the AC broke
Mom sat on the porch with the hose
running water over her painted toes.
Her belly, a soft round home, out and her
book rested atop. I look in the mirror and hope some day
clothes will fit me and all this fat skin will stop
spilling over everything- a body that looks remarkably
like all the women within a 10 foot radius.
How do I hate what I also love so endlessly?
I do it with vigor.
II. He feasts for days and he never
asks me to stop asking him to put his mouth
on the river of my body. The ceiling fan spins,
spins air, I feel on my bare belly, a home
he’s nested inside. The light is off, and it is the only
way I can let him sift until the sun comes.
III. Those hips look like they’d hold my baby
just fine- let me know when you’re legal.
IV. It is a game of chicken between this mirror
and me. My eyes trace the outline and I dare
them to flinch. When they don’t, when they rest
softly on the last freckle below my navel,
I breathe and promise to do better tomorrow.
Y’all. I’m somebody’s hero. What!? They must not know that I never wear socks and I love eating raw cabbage.
Just kidding. Thank you, whoever you are. Maybe one day we can talk about it in real life.
Our first date was at a haunted
house and when you screamed
at the chainsawed man, left me
to have my head severed-
that is when I knew.
Our second date, my friend’s drunk dating show
at a dive bar. When you requested the men
have a dance-off to determine who dates
the lucky lady-
that is when I knew.
Last night, I farted on you &
woke myself up. When you
responded I love you-
that is when I knew.
Love, it has taken me a parliament
of wrong lovers to know there is no skin
I touch the way I touch yours.
It has taken me endless baptizing
in the wrong bodies to know the salt
of your mouth is the only river
I ever want to drink.
I know the maneuvering some god
had to do to bring you to me-
the unyielding winter, the red dirt- the death
that begged you to kiss it on the mouth the way you kiss me.
Blessed be this bible.
The Bible of Finally, You’ve Arrived.
The Bible of I Did Not Know I Was Waiting My Whole Life to Learn Your Name.
The Bible of This Want is the Want that I Welcome.
This love is the gospel I hope to sing until
our voices swell out into the night, until
we are only a prayer, said softly into the dark.
See that? That would be my newest chapbook, all dressed up with nowhere to go…yet. And that’s where you come in!
17 poems bled over by yours truly, printed in between some fancy silver, all tied up with string.
I’m selling these lovelies all through April & May, and would love to send you one. Click the yellow button and all this magic is yours for the reading.
Happy National Poetry Month!
This woman is my best friend, soul twin, mentor, confidant, the person that keeps me from ripping all my hair out at least 6 times a day, one of the most skilled writers I know, a careful craftswoman of story and song, and a woman made from greatness. Absolutely.
If I were you- I would order the hell outta this book. It WILL be your best purchase all year. It will change your whole life around.
I’ve been in a pretty major depression for a few months now. I’ve alienated my friends, my apartment is a mess, my grades suck, struggling at work. It’s been hard.
I accidentally discovered this lady’s poetry right before I nosedived again. Some nights it’s the only thing that gets me through. She is something else. She talks the way I talk. She has rough edges. And God damn, her words. Her words. Her words.
I will ignore that radio static, because all I want are directions back to the lighthouse.
I believe I will get there someday.
I wrote this poem to honor all the people that loved me at a time I didn’t know how to love myself, let alone any of them.
Hearing that this poem rings true to people that I see so much of myself in is all the hallelujah I need.
Keep swimming. You’ll get there. I promise.
Pluck each finger
that touched another woman’s
soft, billowing body from the inside.
Shuck each hair, you love me
you love me not. You love
You love me not. Splay open
the belly, a catfish straight down
the center, chin to groin. Pluck
out the heart, to prove
it is there. Once
in my hand, feed it to each child
hungry. Fill their bellies
until they laugh, sucking
the blood from their fingers.
Mom once made dessert with raw noodles/once made an air conditioner out of a glass of water and the ceiling fan/once made a plate out of duct tape/once made toilet from a tin can/once made a house out of a car/ once made an apartment out of a garage/ once found a homeless shelter that would take 5 kids/ 4 girls, one bed/3 years, 5 apartments/One mother, 4 jobs/ 5 children/ 6 mouths, one income/ Kool aid, no sugar/ Cereal, no milk/ Home, no house/Lunch meat, no bread/Classroom, no pencil/Parent, no father/Need, need, need, no want/government housing/ government money/ government cheese, milk, bread/ laundromat/ public space/ public transportation/ public education/ public healthcare/ no private/ no want/ only need/ only need.
When I tell you that this poem is everything, I am actually selling it short. I’m not going to tell you how many times I’ve watched it in the past few days, but it’s comprable to the number of times I’ve prayed. Shout out to poemsbydes for being exactly what I needed to hear this week.
Hey, Alexus. You’re never alone. Promise
I fucking love her. Defiantly a spoken word poet I look up to. Not only is she so talented, but this poem in particular really spoke to me. She speaks the way I’ve been feeling for far too long and it’s just comforting knowing that someone you look up to has been where you have been and got through it and understands. Let’s me know I’m not alone
Y’all. The more of these messages I get the more I am convinced that all my YouTube views come from the same 10 people. Am I mad at it? Nope. I’ve got the tiniest, most dedicated fan base in the history of all bases.