Petition for sex positivity to be reframed in a way that is actually intersectional and doesn’t prioritize protecting kinks over protecting the survivors who are triggered by them.
My body is a landscape.
I have painted it with flowers and trees deep beneath layers of skin so I always remember how to grow.
I am decorated with stretch marks, dancing with each movement like tall blades of grass, like fields of corn in a summer breeze, those miles of green a distant, almost-lost memory from the place where I was born.
My body is rock.
Hard igneous, formed deep in the fires of the earth.
My body is tender, bruised and scarred.
I wear each day on my skin, purple constellations on my thighs and even I cannot make sense of them.
My hands are stories, treasure maps.
Histories, let me tell you how I earned those calluses, let me explain how no combination of water, soap, effort, and time can scrub the soil from my lifelines, I wear it in my palms because it belongs there, I wear it in my palms because it has given me life, let me tell you.
I stare at my body through the dripping steam of the bathroom mirror.
An impossible union of rolling hills and gentle canyons, deep forests, fields of stretch marks, of bruises and freckles and ink.
A map with no legend.
A map all my own.
I once told a joke about a straight person.
They came after me in droves.
Each one singing the same:
Don’t fight fire with fire.
What they mean is: Don’t fight fire with anything.
Do not fight fire with water.
Do not fight fire with foam.
Do not evacuate the people.
Do not sound the alarms.
Do not crawl coughing and choking and spluttering to safety.
Do not barricade the door with damp towels.
Do not wave a white flag out of the window.
Do not take the plunge from several storeys up.
Do not shed a tear for your lover trapped behind a wall of flame.
Do not curse the combination of fuel, heat, and oxygen.
Do not ask why the fire fighters are not coming.
When they say: Don’t fight fire with fire.
What they mean is: Stand and burn.”