Let Them Have It
One of my two new pieces in Landlocked issue 5.1
Let Them Have It
Nobody writes about their privacy anymore. Not in first person, the way I wouldn't dare. Not about nervous steam sloughing skin into filthy concealments. Or how it droops in wait for pen-down to be hauled out. How it was born long ago to little fanfare. Failed at school's standard equations. Took to dangerous imaginations. Became a safe haven for dangerous imaginations. It has not gone on to win a fellowship. Or participate in a triathlon. It has few friends and fewer wins. Nobody talks about how my privacy is funny or mysterious. Or unfit for social media. How it anticipates letters with wet ink. How it tackles the mailbox slot in a burst of anticipation. Is patient for pottery and impatient with plastic.On Sundays, my privacy does not insert itself in queer literature. Or become inserted with Pride parade. Or act its best for sweeps week. And then it does, and then it does, and then it does. And it is afraid of crowds. It is deep in its garden. It is out getting dirty. Getting queer and getting weird. My privacy once slept through breakfast with an icon. It asked for and received her forgiveness. It wants you to guess who. My privacy never tells. My privacy is not a salutation drop down menu. Or a Wikipedia revision history. Or a differently grasped handshake. Your pink or blue handshake. Your delicate flower or your dripping no-no. My privacy doesn't cash in on itself. It misses the beat. It forgets your name. It hates your assumptions. It loves the idea of you. It does not believe in heroes. It is not humbled by your praise. It sees right through you. It spills its guts on the other side. It is stuck on your upper lip. It does not feel guilty. It certainly does. My privacy does not bear the burden of buying jesus a Leer jet and night vision goggles. It does not wait in any god’s line. It does not have shark teeth or a laser guide. My privacy does not compromise. My privacy does not clamp or cry. Or have a name. Or have much time. It practices patience for the sake of its lover. It does not have time to shower. It smells like whatever. On Sundays, my whatever-smelling unnamed privacy sleeps in, then watches HGTV, then fucks and falls asleep again.My privacy does best in cotton. It is allergic to nightshades. It does not feel obligated to button up on weekdays. It does not predict rain or claim to be a master of its craft. It will ruin your podcast. My privacy is not poetry. Or property. It is awkward among poets. It is not a metaphor or a concerto or a crescendo. It does not give mandate or consensus. It will not be caught limping or erecting. It will not be called activist or inactive. It does not have a strong voice. It speaks for no one and will not sit on your committee. It is unsure where it sits in the conversation. It will not leave a legacy. It has not made a difference. It certainly has. And it is tired. And it hides in lonely love. You would not believe how it gives love and keeps secrets. How it spreads itself open for you to glue and glitter. It is an open book for you to pick. It is not pushing boundaries. It is pushing buttons. It is scared. It is absolutely everything and absolutely pointless. It knows you do not want to hear a thing it has to say. You would not believe what it says behind your back. It has nothing to say to you. It is not for you. It certainly is. It is because of you. My privacy is the reliable janitor for your leftover generation.
