I have tried to reconcile with the ever-present stage that my body seems to inhabit. I perform for, if nobody else, myself- the internalized voice of the Brahmanical Patriarchy’s judgement telling me I am never complete. I write as a scream, a song, and a seduction- to my body which I am learning, is deeply entangled in blood, water, and other fluids, with all bodies past and present. I write to dream into an entangled future of bodies, hoping to transition into a kinder creature, a better steward of the fluids that bind us.
“women's sexual desire can never be overcome in all the three worlds!” (Mahabharata, XIII.20.59–60)
The same things keep coming up. Slowness, fingers, hinging at the hips making space in my back, twisting and channeling limbs along my body’s lines, making circles, slowness every time. Dipping back into old habits, catching myself, making changes. Water, in my hips, my chest, releasing the hips- twisting again. Expression is serious, neutral. Fingers trembling, fiddling with the air around me, I think, gay. Twisting to the top, chest exposed. Something always ends up exposed. I am getting better and better at doing things that feel strange.
in mni sota makoce, god is in the air and the clouds and waters that hold me as i melt and reform into new genders, new beings, new bodies. god holds me as i decompose the knots of my being that hold scriptures of purity and innocence. god whispers their secrets to me through the muddy lake shore at Bde Maka Ska, the hollow tree trunks, the blue wildflowers that erupt with spring.
