by Noelle Hendrickson
Dinner that tastes homemade. A day with my sister. Art that is mine. A park bench in a place that is nowhere. The ability to appreciate the things I know I should be appreciating, like sunrises, or when somebody tells me they love me. Smaller calves. All the birthday cards I never read. Shoes that don’t blister. A dress that is feminine, but not in that way, but is somehow cut both too low and too high, something my mom would call “scrap fabric”, and when I wear it I am reminded of how men feel in suits, and it is the same in the sense that it feels right for me to be wearing it. A new camera. Four mugs, one for each room and my desk. For her to ignore me when I say yes and don’t mean it, but I want to get it over with anyhow. For her to stop reminding me that’s not how consent works, you can’t say yes when you mean no, and you shouldn’t push through things like this, listen, you can just be honest, and is there something I’m doing, something to make you feel pressured? Is there? A novel from somewhere foreign. To be a girl-next-door type. To talk faster, to speak eloquently, to say what I am trying to say. To be a body and love it.
