Sometimes I feel like my life's work is one long meditation on how things fall up and out and down. Fall no matter how hard you try. My life's work is a return to the inside splayed out of a girl on girl broken heart.
No matter how many safe words, accountability strategies, I-statements and nonviolent communication workbooks, commitment to each other, to building, life long, no matter what. No promise. Just the promise of her to you. The one you bet your life on. She can write a performance piece about how God picked you out for each other before you were born and perform it to 300 people, and that doesn't mean that six months later she isn't sending you the long email waiting for you in your box like a bomb or a snake, the long chain of words showing you how much she knows you is just how much she knows how to destroy you.
At the Femme Conference, the 2010 one, the theme is every girl who has broken the inside of your heart. This is the femme con where we start crying two minutes into Kate Bornstein's speech when she talks about what it takes to survive to make it to femme, a whole conference chamber of girls ruining their eye makeup. Every girl here has a story to tell of the girl she loved so much, more than anything, gave her rent money. Femme family. And then one day you woke up and she just hated your guts. You didn't know who she was anymore. She hated you, hated you utterly, and you hadn't done a damn thing. 的 loved her so much, I loved her better than anything,sobs girl into my shoulder.
I always say, I can't fuck femmes, it'd be a fucking mess, I need my girls to be who I don't date, it's safer.
But it's a fucking mess anyway. We break each others hearts even when we don't date each other.
My mama raped me. That's a fact.
My mama almost killed me. Ran from her since little, long shadow.
I came out when I was twelve but I didn't fuck another female-assigned person til I was 26. I chose queer masculinity my whole life. It was a walled garden. It was a place where I thought my femme was elevated. Seen. Cherished. It was not titties. It was not pussy. Titties scared the hell out of me.
Women scared the hell out of me.
You can't get angry at women. They'll kill you. They'll love you better than anyone. They'll kill you.
When I am 35 I lose my femme virginity in a darkened conference room at the oakland marriot. The lights are off and promiscuous girl is blaring and it's true: femmes know how to fuck other femmes because we are femmes who like to get fucked. like the girl said in the workshop.
I am in between two thick brown femmes and it's the hottest thing I've ever done. It's enough, it's more than enough. I pull her hair, she pulls mine. We give into each other's need. Surrender. My brain blows out my ears. I feel like I put my face in jesus' pussy and I'm born again. We are all ache and skill and need and skill to fuck each other as the sluts we are, beyond shame, no shame. Would this solve everything, if we just fucked each other? Straddled thick or skinny brown thighs, blessed the center of each other's chests?
We are in this work until we win or we die. We all we have, sweetnesses, all we have. And when you get so close like blood thrumming is to vein's skin, she pulls out the knife to cut you out and open when you hurt her on purpose or on accident. Anything you do affects her whole life. So she cuts you up and out.
No easy solutions. No promises. Just the deep long memory. Just the prayer of compassion. Sister, star. I want your light to be as big as mine is, mine to be as big is yours is. If I shine, it's because of you. I want us both to.
as of september 2010, I'm committing to post one new piece a week (disability and travel may remix this intention.) all this work is shared under a Creative Commons license- credit if you share, no commercial use allowed.
This work by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.