Also, there is risk embedded in this girl savoring what’s hidden, underneath, unsanctioned by culture:
I met my own loneliness, rage, impotence, indignation.
We, coming early to culture, repressed and choked by it, our beautiful mouths stopped up with gags, pollen, and short breaths; we the labyrinths, we the ladders, we the trampled spaces; the stolen and the flights...
-Hélène Cixous, "Sorties"
As a teenager I remember forgetting my house key and pushing the patio table to stand under the kitchen window, prying off the screen, and climbing in. My uniform skirt snagged on the bricks, my thighs bare and scraped, I shed my propriety often—in favor of some deeper dignity: no place—and no part of myself—barred from me.
I broke into my own home. I had to.
As women and girls do and will, until the bolted speechless doors of pleasure are flung wide open for us, by us.
I call these doors speechless, but not silent, not even voiceless.
Hear it? This murmuring in the belly of women’s unmitigated desire, of our lust for ourselves, of what we’ve been banned from expressing yet. Yet, here we are: speaking, singing, praising, drawing up utterances from the bog of our deep memory.
Do you recognize this voice—curious, magnetic, impetuous—the longing that draws down the stars?