Triangularly
By: Natalie Lafrance Slack
Tags: Metoo, Poetry, Feminism, Poem, Sexuality

“You’re a good writer. But everything you write is better out loud.”

Fine.

Here.

#metoo is trending

and I’m trying to decipher the pangs and chills that

rumble my stomach and run up my spine

because I have been told that I overshare

that I’m too loud and

that people do not want to bear witness

to my trauma

when they have enough of their own

Me, fifteen, only wrote poetry

sentences were too hard, too much

they take all of the wind and words out of you

and they have rules

Me, seventeen

I don’t believe in rules.

Me, ten, a red Christmas nightgown, flannel, ankle length

in case you’re wondering

(does it matter?)

(why does it matter?)

Me, nine, a navy blue t-ball shirt

(sponsored by Floyd’s Jewerly, yes, spelled wrong. Probably proofed by the same local editor who let “obkease contact” end a newspaper article, instead of “please contact”)

(back when typos were funny instead of commonplace)

(we don’t even call them out, just shrug and move on.)

“obkease contact” with any comments

or complaints

(you see how much we value these.)

(move on)

and orange cotton shorts

My memory is a trap.

words stay, forever.

He didn’t say a lot of full sentences but I will never forget

watching these words tumble from his lips

hands reaching

“it’s just that when I see right there, the way your legs make a triangle, I have to touch it.”

the way my legs

attach to my torso

compels assault

it is mostly my fault

Me, twelve, pulled aside, scolded for

flirting

“you might cause them to stumble”

I am told

Because me, thirteen, is responsible

for unruly, uncontrollable teenage boys and their

tumbling lips and

hands reaching

the way my legs attach to my torso

the way my collarbone slopes into my shoulder

the way my hips spread out wide and

my butt rises

and falls

as I walk the stairs

compels assault

it is mostly my fault

Me, my entire life, raised in a culture of

purity

as rule

this isn’t an indictment on my parents parenting.

my words aren’t here to spread fault

there is enough fault here

there are too many words here

we do not need to be so loud and so provocative

try sitting still, being quiet

move on.

in a culture that asked me to protect and guard my virginity

as if my value was found

100% in a taut hymen

the depths of unexplored womanhood

priceless above rubies

I write poetry up and down the lengths of my

arms and legs with razorblades but

I do not write full stories

too many words are too hard

no one wants to live your trauma

but I carry with me the guilt of

Me, fourteen

and

Me, sixteen

and

Me, twenty two

protecting the stories of sisters who

were beaten for dressing provocatively

were shamed for being raped

were touched by brothers who climbed into their beds late at night and told them it was their fault.

Fathers. Uncles. Pastors. Their fault.

If only we had all known better than to let our

legs slope

triangularly

I’m sorry

you’re a good writer. Just don’t say this out loud.

But.

even after all of this

I reject the notion that every man is attacker.

that every man is uncontrollable need to press

hands into triangles

because I have known men to carry themselves

with dignity

and honor

and I believe they are more than the sum of the shapes

and symbols of toxic shame they’ve been handed

we work out our own inheritance

I reject the idea that every woman is responsible

that wearing best Christmas nightgowns

and having legs slope into triangle

is at fault

I reject that value is decided by

fucking anyone or

not

fucking

but looking like you might want to

someday

Fuck.

Me, 32

kind of over this shame thing

and unwilling to be silenced

even though, everything that needs to be said was probably said

already

I will write words down every arm

and leg

and torso

and sloping inward towards my center

where I pushed screaming life into this

screaming life

if it means my boys will know that

bodies are valued

sex is valued

people are valued

People.

we’ll watch “Tea and Consent” over and over

until it’s so deeply ingrained in their DNA,

the dreams they dream,

the hands they hold

that honor pours out of every pore.

that consent is their veins, passion contained running through it

“In health class they told us

to only sleep with virgins because

then you won’t get an STD”

This is why #metoo

shame is screaming in my ears

and I am loud and angry

and then, calm, and

bodies hold value, yes.

inimitable

unequivocal

value

yours

theirs

alongside every human being you ever meet

Me, today

too tired to write sentences.

I guess #metoo has trended

and ended up pulling words out of my

shape and sound.

Circles and Triangles and Slopes and Angles

and I’m trying to decipher the pangs and chills that

rumble my stomach and run up my spine

I’m too loud,

too provocative

too much

My words are best read out loud.

#metoo