Capitulate
I can look your god in the eye.
That's what it's going to take to live a life of flowers and words.
I can look your god in the eye. When else have I said that?
I've said it while closing my eyes and leaning in. While my nimble fingers reach for the sharp implement. When I soften into bed, a black cup of coffee, songs, story. I can look your god right in the eye by maintaining my tunnel vision and hoping I don't get shot in the tunnel. I can look your god in the eye by telling on you – even if no one cares. I can look your god in the eye by taking one step forward instead of staying still. By lighting this candle no one cares about, because I like the way it twists in my vision. An orange swizzle stick in constant motion.
No one ever asks a candle flame if it's lonely in there, if it's uncomfortable, if it's tired of performing, if it could use a rest. Isn't it like girls in that way, and women? No one ever asks – that's how so many sentences of despair from so many people begin: No one ever asks.
But I can look your god in the eye.
With this incense stick, this lighter, this hope, this faith.
I look your god in the eye by daring to find beauty in myself and not giving up on it. By not capitulating.
Capitulate. That's a fun word.
Not so great as a command, though.
Capitulate, shiny toy.
Aged out woman.
Woman holding nothing but a handful of strings for hope.
No, I don't think I will.
My heart feels like a silver locket, tucked in a wooden locker. The bottom of my stomach feels present, like a soccer ball who knows it's about to be kicked. I see my hands in front of me but I can't feel them.
But I keep writing about how it is inside. That is how I look your god in the eye.
Prompt inspired by a lyric in Pancake by Tori Amos.
Listen here to set the energy in your own body and try this prompt for yourself. Write for 10 minutes or three pages longhand, however your body wants to respond to: I can look your god in the eye.
And once you finish, notice: how do you feel on the other side of that writing?
