The Stormbinger

The surface.

Welcome to the surface, this prickly space between the real and imagined where we encounter each other

under

the sky of expectations.

Erm. I might disappoint, I think.

The societal standards of beauty fell off me as I was

peeling the weakness of victim through the press-ups

embracing stamina through each step of my run

Eating instead of starving.

Getting bigger.

Inside and out.

Oups. The rain starts and expectations well… splash on my face.

I will never be

Petite

Ever again.

(sorry?)

And I think now

No body will want my body

So big so strong

So able to defend itself and plant a knee between attacker’s legs

So able to spin fairy tales out of random objects such as empty water bottle, Lego brick and a unicorn toy for my daughters’ good night sleep

So book writing about assassins wondering about profound and secretive truths underneath their client’s bed

So deeply intimate with friends from Bristol to Newcastle to Belgrade to Jerusalem to San Francisco to little island in Pacific to Brisbane to Kathmandu to Brussels

(hello fury princesses. I so wish you lived closer)

The world is my oyster

But

(I think to myself under the pressure of old stories)

No body will taste it

I will never be a “good piece”

Ever again.

And, (as I call myself in hard moments sometimes)

my darling

I will get wet.

I see you, stormbringer.

I see the sands of time long lost in your eyes and I wander whether you’d see me.

I hear you, stormbringer. I understand the language you speak, I use the same words to feel, I listen. and I can detect no sound of your hearing me

Still

I balance your presence between the worlds of real and imagined.

But do you like me, I wonder. Will you like me when you see this body moving? Dancing its freedom and power on Bristol’s cobbles, with the town who gave her the freedom.

I do not know.

And I fear not, too.

And

Oh my

What if I don’t like you?