Bleux Stockings Vol 1: Theresa Davis
We are delighted to reprint Theresa Davis' piece from our January show.
Comfort
twelve years ago,
my teeth remembered their purpose
bit down on the locks I crafted myself
freed me from reluctant fashions
the shape of a body they never knew
the way they hung in there
in that closet like
questions
waiting to be acknowledged
waiting to be answered by me
all allegation and judgement
questions
like “why those shoes, Theresa?”
they never held the full of you
all that awkward stumbling in those
uncomfortable shoes
covering the tracks you are supposed to be making
heels that while, for you, are appreciated on others
do not fit your body no matter
how much you try to force them
not when your windshield wiper of a mind
vacillates between feme and butch
while acknowledging neither
feels like pedestal
feels like compensating
for what you want
while pretending you want what you have
fallen arches make limping to your future
a hell of a lot less sexy
and because you got them cheap
those shoes seem to amplify your regret
I could hear all the questions
all the judgments
every single one
not all of them about my wardrobe
so I kept the closet door closed
locked
a safe of secrets
there is comfort in closet doors
closed easily
with minimum damage
from all the wagging tongues
that might call me what I am
and still manage to bruise my heart
so
I became camouflage
because if they can’t name me
they become confused in the judging
it’s like buying off the rack
the clothes may not fit well
but they hide all the things you want hidden
there is a comfort in buying off the rack
but there is great discomfort in the knowledge
that you are teaching your daughters
how not to live in their own skin
so
I dismantled the closet
took my sorrows to goodwill
sold my misgivings
and cowardice to the highest bidder
bought the boots that had been tickling my eyes for years
I kept my flowy shirts
because in them I can chart my movements
see the semaphore of me signaling to the islands I am attracted to
and flowy shirts
are comfortable as fuck
in case you didn’t know
then I stepped back from my would be destruction
smiled at my good work
caught my own reflection in a mirror
did not recognize the face the body
and the slow realization that
twice I had become a flesh and bone closet
not, holding clothes I will never wear
but stuffing the feelings I did not want to feel
over three hundred pounds of them
I was a hoarded of sadness filling all
the space in me with empty
another example of teaching my children the wrong things
seems, I confused complacency for comfort
there is an ironica comfort in this metaphor
but
first closets first
my reasons for leaving were many
I was unhappy
I was married to a man I loved
but not in love with
and when he
the now wasband
tried to explain
that is was my job as the wife
to remind him
that the last time we had sex
my son was conceived
and four years later
it is my job to remind him
that we haven’t had sex for four years
and I’m kind of pissed because I love sex
and I was so drowned in sad I hadn’t noticed for four years
four years
I was re-virginized
but
The most important reason why I left
I was raising three children
two of them are girls
and living a lie teaching them it was the truth
oh
and well that whole
you know
gay thing
I asked for the divorce
took my kids moved to a house too small for our stuff
but every room in the house owned a closet with no door
and after three moths of being happy
I found myself 150 lbs lighter
exorcised the ghosts of grief and regret
knowing full well some ghosts hang around
this is why I press pen to paper
why I push my own boundaries
I got bold
I asked out a woman who caught my fancy
who reminded my body what it felt like
when lust comes wanting
reclaimed most of my four years
in a spring to summer affair
the weather was stupid nice
since I excavated myself
every house I have lived in from then to now
owned closets with no doors
my two beautiful grown girls
and that boy that barely got through
we all learned together
learning how to live in our own skin
each one of my children have a name for me
my oldest says I was her first Condo
my middle girl thinks me mansion
my son, he sometimes even at fifteen years
will place his palm to my stomach and whisper home
I know it’s more than the gush of pride that
I embarrassingly pour all over them
more than the unconditional love I color them with
I believe it is because I have learned not to close myself away
and they have learned through me somehow
that there is comfort in authenticity
and that there is no place,
no fucking place
like home
