Phallic Retribution
By: Anisa of the sunflowers
TRIGGER WARNING.
The song of the parts of me that left me; that were taken from me violently, in shrieks and screams, I call them back in inaudible hymns.
Verse 1.
“Everything is borne from lust, we were born of it, we succumb to it then blame the devil for it…” The preacher stated boldly and I sank deeper into my seat and tightened the grip on my skirt. I glanced at my mother seated next to me, her right hand was outstretched and her eyes were closed. The benediction filled her, I decided not to tell her about a Friday night.
“We are made of lust, perishable flesh fueled by burning desires…” He roared. The thunderous ‘Amen(s)’ made my fickle eight-year-old heart tremble. I decided never to speak of that Friday night.
That night in the silence of the bathroom, my body half submerged in the warm bathing waters of my basin, I baptized myself. Magdalena was my new secret name. I was a whore, and I was not about to blame the devil for it. I bathed—soaking in the waters of my beastial darkness.
Therapist: I advised you to try not to explain yourself as if you’re a narrator in a book describing its plot.
I sink into my seat.
Therapist: There is nothing to be ashamed of, I’m just saying that the habit makes you develop a crutch that removes you from actually experiencing the emotions or memories you’re talking about and so you end up intellectualizing the thought instead of feeling it.
I smile nervously at the thought of being perceived accurately
Someone to bear witness…
Therapist: You can go on now…
I discovered my clitoris when it swelled up to the moans of the scissoring women in the porn CD I got from my uncle’s private compartment, excuse my language.
Giggling
For whatever reason, society has necessitated that there be a need to excuse yourself when talking about matters concerning sexual intercourse and everything borne from it.
Therapist: You don’t have to mask uncomfortable statements under the guise of humor with me, you’re safe. All your opinions are accepted here.
I exhale
Okay. I’ve always said that my virginity was ‘broken’ in stages and so I am quite certain, (giggling) as certain as any hormonal woman can be, that my cherry was popped when I was eight. Figuratively. Or maybe not. I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to hide under my ‘humor’…force of habit.
Therapist: Thank you.
Anyway, I always prided myself in the idea that I was responsible for my own deflowering.
Therapist: Why is that?
Shortened Breaths,
A memory birthed before my eyes,
A vision? A recollection perhaps.
A young girl with a heart, with a womb forged by flames,
She carried the heat with her,
At night she’d pray for the heat to leave her,
But her God was mute.
Its flames crept up on her unannounced, swallowing the tip of her labia,
Bulging,
She’d beg for it to leave,
She was a dessert with no water.
Maybe this heat led her to the CDs,
After playing it maybe she was reborn,
Like a phoenix,
Maybe her steaming skin spread her (already) inviting aroma,
Because I was….
Therapist: How exactly were you responsible for your own deflowering?
Chorus
Umm,
Biting my tongue,
(Inaudibly)…If I hadn’t watched what was on those CDs, then I wouldn’t have…
Therapist: You can tell me anything...
Heavy breathing
IF I HADN’T WATCHED THOSE CDS THEN THE THOUGHT OF SEX WOULDN’T HAVE CRYSTALLISED IN MY MIND. I JUST COULDN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT! I THOUGHT ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME AND THEN OF COURSE THAT ONE FRIDAY NIGHT…
Heart palpitating aggressively
Therapist: What happened on that one Friday night?
…My mum was away and my uncle was supposed to watch over me for the night. It was like a week after I had seen them… He had always been very kind to me and he always indulged me…
Crying
Maybe if I wasn’t so nice to him, maybe if I smiled less. Maybe if I didn’t see the videos then I’d be more alarmed when he touched me! But I wasn’t okay! So I know it’s my fault, you don’t have to tell me. I know!! Children are supposed to be innocent…but I wasn’t
Weeping.
Continued weeping.
Clenched fists.
Therapist: Do you think you’re responsible for your assault?… Responsible for your own deflowering?
I was born in flesh that’s filled with lust. I loved all the boys I’d play with, I’d want them to touch me. I’d want them to see me, I’d want them to remove my clothes and watch the movements of my body. I loved the girls I played with; I’d want to feel the softness of their skin. I was born a whore, I was born damned. I’m the spawn of satan… Allegedly… but I guess that makes me incestuous because I want the devil to unravel me too. I want him, a being damned just like me, to bear witness to the disaster that is my body. This collection of wants.
Therapist: (A short pause) Who did you talk to after the assault?
No one…
Therapist: Are you religious?
Against my will…
Therapist:…How is your relationship with God?
Mary Magdalene
Slut
Born damned
If God knows everything, then why was my lust predetermined?
And if it was, is it a sin?
Is it fate?
If it’s fate…Are some souls created to descend to hell
Why me?
Why me!
…There is no relationship.
Therapist: What was the response before that?
An alarming confusion
Therapist: You were silent before responding, what was in your mind then?
…Just silence
Therapist: I’m interested in the silence.
Uncontrollable weeping
…(In between tears) Do you believe in God?
Therapist: I believe in a different kind of God
Raises head
Meets her eyes but very briefly
Therapist: I believe in a God with some perspective… Not some tyrannical ruler
What do you call him?
Therapist: What do you call yourself… In the silence
Heart sinks
Someone to bear witness
Magdalena…
Therapist: The first human soul to recognize the risen Christ? Beautiful
… The whore
Weeping intensifies
Therapist: That’s not the entire picture now is it?
Nods head
Therapist: Narrate what lies in your silence to me…
(Wiping my tears, clearing my throat) I want so bad for my pain to land on the forest’s ears gently…but it crashes and echoes back to me in piercing blades. Every time I confront the echo…attempt to pierce a hole through it and finally rid myself of it, it retaliates. Each blow stronger than the last one.
My eyes are transfixed by the trees swaying outside. It’s as if they are waving at me through the window.
Therapist: Who is the forest in this scenario?
A heavy sigh
… Everyone. Myself included. All the victims of my resultant lust. He claims anyone who crosses his path, lures us in and consumes us but is never satisfied.
Therapist: Why is he seemingly a separate entity from you?
Eyes fixed on the swaying trees
… Because he is.
Therapist: Why is he a man?
The swaying trees.
Their grace and beauty, how I long for that.
How I long to be graceful and beautiful…
…Because ever since that Friday night, I’ve felt like I’m a perverted man of short stature with a beard. He’s trapped inside this female body that I occupy, prying into her privacy, forcing her to dance in the fires of desire. My lungs are thirsty for something that’s beyond my reach and the only way I can translate that is through…
Uncontrollable streaming of tears
Therapist: Might your uncle look like this man you feel is trapped inside you?
Something like a sudden heart attack
…
Therapist: Okay, I understand. Did you ever speak about this with your parents?
Gracefully swaying trees
Clenched Fists.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore…
Bridge.
Mother
My mother of the sermon’s benediction
Her skin transfigured to the preachers words
She saw God in that moment
I saw the guillotine above me
Waiting to sever me from my body
My mother of the Christian heart
You sat next to me and condemned me
Did you know that you were?
Or were you serving God
Do my thoughts sound bitter in this moment
Am I the mustard seed in the rocky grounds?
Mother…Will you ever truly see me?
I look for your recognition everywhere
See me…
Therapist: How is your relationship with your parents, you’ve never talked about them.
I have no father just a mother…
Eloi Eloi!…
Therapist: How is your relationship…
It’s like I’m an alien she’s always trying to humanise.
Therapist: So it’s hard for you to understand each other?
… It’s hard for her to understand me. I understand her for sure!
Therapist: She’s very religious, isn’t she?
… And critical.
Weeps.
Therapist: When did you first start feeling this loneliness I see you carrying?
If a heart could break like a dam and flood its path with tears.
Can someone be born lonely?
Therapist: I see, I finally see you.
Nervous confusion
Therapist: Why is it that you wanted to be stripped and observed…
Someone to bear witness
… (Light chuckle) Someone to bear witness.
Therapist: I see.
You don’t think it’s weird?
Therapist: I believe that we were created to bear witness to the creator.
So, I’m not broken?
Smiles
Someone bearing witness
What about the lust?
Therapist: A traveller looking to be discovered disguises his explorations as quests to find something other than himself…
An artist looking for a muse.
Therapist: Exactly. Your uncle pretended to see you, but you were just a kid. Lost in translation. There’s no condemnation for that…
A wave washes over my womb
My skin cools down for the first time in a millennium
Therapist: I want you to write something down to this man inside you. From the perspective of your eight year old self, on that Friday night. Persecute him… And banish him.
My gaze finally meets hers and I exhale.
I nod.
Outro.
“Were my thoughts as interesting as you claimed or were you just tenderizing my flesh so that you could sink your teeth into me as I slept? You’re such a good liar, how you cried when your secret was finally out. How they believed you, how she believed you. How I believed you. Fuck you…”
That night I slipped into the bathtub and closed my eyes. The water burned my skin and burned my labia as I stretched my legs. I was open and exposed. The water immediately darkened, I hadn’t showered in ages. I submerged myself and felt the dirt escape me. I resurfaced with new glowing skin.
Mary Magdalene!
