Rupture 1 by Hailey O'Gorman
Rupture is an experimental series about queerness, the body, and universality. What is the queer body? Is the body universal? How do we relate to our bodies? The big stuff, the loud stuff, the weird stuff. This series will mix poetry and non-fiction, creating a space to discuss the complex sphere of our ideas of self. Each installment will build (or refute) the previous installment. The aim is to create a collaborative consideration of ourselves — what is universal?
my teeth are sore my teeth are sore my teeth are sore
from wishing into the world from wishing into the world from wishing into the world
myself myself myself
and how i and how i and how i
want to want to want to
be in the be in the be in the world.
i am grinding my grinding my grinding
teeth together teeth together teeth together
to form a mantra mantra mantra mantra mantra
from bone and bone and bone and bone and bone and rejecting it
only flesh comes from flesh comes from flesh
no water into wine here, just the taste of licorice
the bad sort
bitter, sour, sore, the bad sort
i spill to cope i spill to cope
from these lips
my words aren’t magic, just sweet and sore manifest misunderstanding
You only know one body: your own. How you see yourself may only ever be unique to you. Others will try to understand you in their own ways. But I’m not like other ‘girls’. I’m too anxious for that. I’m a walking mess, baby.
My body is a contradiction. I reach out, my joints hurt, I curl up, like some brittle shelled tortoise. I wax, because I am afraid people will see the hairs on my legs. I wane, because I am scared of being seen. My body needs attention.
My body is an object, a product to compare to others. My body is my own, so don’t dare come near me. My body is free. My body is flesh and nothing more. My body is really good at long distance running. My body can’t go an hour without sugar or coffee or some sweet stimulant. My body is tired. My body cannot sleep. Each night is a subconscious heist to steal the blanket. I don’t know how my partner puts up with it.
Somewhere, when she wakes me up — my body is not just my own. Whatever contradictory space I try to isolate myself within is not a vacuum. Those around this body all share space with this body. Ah, that’s it. All space is shared space.
My partner respects, understands and loves my body. This body has been invaded, protruded, punctured. Still, there are those who understand that there is more to me than this shape, materiality, and form. I don’t understand it. I don’t think I have to. It’s best to take what you can. My body is as mine, as it is yours. My body is a contradiction.
Edited by Megan O’Neil