We are seventeen and stoned, and you have nothing to say. 

My life centres around beats
and the beat of your
heartbeat driven.

She wants to own her own body
a corps emasculated
ten billion times the size of a ten billionth.

And the roots of the trees of the forest
and the gulls of the sand of the beaches
and the lines of people like cocaine
stuck to the bathroom counter
none of the three wonders of the world,
not even drugs sex nor rock and roll,

can compete with the beat of her heart
a vessel in a cage, a bass drum building up.

These are the bones in your feet
and the muscles in your head
flexing.
These are the two pounds of fat along the ribcage
and dry patch of flaky skin on necks.

in bathroom stalls
in restaurants
fled to the jazz rooms to hear women sing.

This is cheery dark skin
&
fireworks
&
obscenities inked into the pages of famous literature.

This is my breast tissue;
the way I walk;
the ugly clothes I wear;
a self-proclamation of indifferent dignity.

This is a statement broadcast, she says in the air,
not a question
—viewpoint
—opinion
—perspective
seeking approval.

This is my breath,
the way I cough after a cigarette;
the taste of fast food in an unladylike mouth;
smudged eyeliner on my pillow in the morning;
hairy legs.

These are imperfect nipples
and awkwardly shaped birthmarks
and hickeys streaming down my collarbone
at an under-paid job.

These are my scars from every night spent in search
of whatever it happened to be
that didn’t come.
These are photographs in the magazines
the advertisements I never asked to see
the cry of a wilderness I never knew existed.
The howl of the earth in my ears.

She wants to own her own body—
starts with her heart beat—
buh-boom
buh-boom
buh-boom
The blood in her lungs
the ache in her heels
the flesh
and bones
and beats
and bars
and a symphony of action—
inaction.

She wants to own her own body—
gives it to no one else—
touches every inch of it to claim her territory.

She wants to own her own body
and it starts with a beat
and the beat
and the beat of her
heartbeat.

Boys Don’t Cry (1999) – Brandon Teena runs from the law to Falls City, Nebraska. He makes a few friends, and has a few (mis)adventures. The only problem? He was born Teena Brandon. Based on a true story.

The Tree Of Life (2011) – Possibly one of the most artistic and visually stimulating films. Follows a family through their history, quietly and surely. Amazing cinematography.

Mud (2012) – Taken from a fantasyland-gone-wrong. Beautiful portrayal of two best friends’ lives in the south.

Ginger & Rosa (2012) – Growing up in a political 1960s London. Two best friends; ethical disasters; personal challenges. Riveting example of the style of British film; quiet and crashing.

Before Night Falls (2000) – Based on the life of Cuban poet Reinaldo Arenas. Film style of epic proportions, a storyline that is suspenseful, with all the artistry and lush of Spanish poetry.

Into The Wild (2007) – Based on the life of Christopher McCandless, a “hippy”. Book written by Jon Krakauer (written in 1996). He dips out on the “real” world to go find his own reality, being one with nature. Unforgettable characters, and true tears.

Mysterious Skin (2004) – Two kids, molested by the same man: one of them knows it, one of them thinks he was abducted by aliens. It’s time to face the truth. Emotional. Very, very emotional.

The Sessions (2012) – Based on a true story. Mark O’Brien is paralyzed from the neck down. The catch? He wants to lose his virginity. This is how it happens.