What I find most difficult about theorizing is getting to the bone. Past the fleshy bits, the appendages and organs, past veins and muscles that keep me together, sewn shut beneath your gaze. The funny thing is I don’t even have all of my body. I’ve got a few toes and fingers, an eyeball and a nose, a torso propped up on quivering thighs—half a nipple and no heart. It takes time and care to come into a body. I’ve given myself neither of those things.
Instead, I’m imagining a better way of living and it isn’t away from you. Isolation could never suit me. I learn from my relationship with your palms. They tell me the secrets of my grandfather. They tell me about what the world was like before either of us could talk.
I’m not an academic but I wear her skin well. I’ve pinned her to my body to look like a grown-up, but her feet are much bigger than mine. Her steps are too wide. I could never cover that much ground.
How can I prove to you that my words are genuine when I wonder where they come from? The words we come to know have been passed down to us—have been given to us for a reason. What is the reason for my words? Each I-me-my arrived from your chest the way you hold in breathes to stay alive a little longer. Every book I’ve ever read, every article I’ve ever seen, every piece of pop culture I’ve ever analyzed—this is what it means to be human. My body was directed towards those words for a reason. I was pulled towards you for a reason.
I just can’t figure out why yet.