Angelica Whitehorne

I Will Be the Vulnerable Thing!
I Will Be the Softest Act of Rebellion!

I will be the vulnerable thing
 
the cough bursting through a quiet class,
the pearly field flowers ruined by restless feet,
the skinniest of skinny green beans.
 
I will be the vulnerable thing
 
the lightest artist’s stroke, a young boy dressed in pink, my guts will line
bleeding velvet, the women in soft gloves will try me on, my glittering
insecurities, relatable, purchasable,
magnificent in the light.

I will be the vulnerable thing
 

the spider’s web, dancing silk, weeping, draping, clear enough to stick a
hand through, spinning around my dinner, unabashed display, buffet of
truth, nothing of fabric, nothing to cover the eyes.

I will be the vulnerable thing
 

the salt, the wound, the thing whose tongue will shriek truth instead of
shrivel, the thing swallowed who will sing again throughout the intestine.
                           
That which was buried down                         Unburied
That which was covered up                            Uncovered
That which was Earthed over                         Unearthed

I will be the vulnerable thing
 

I am shaking off this man’s blind, this body’s hideaways, these shy
defenses, tearing the tops of envelopes I once feared to open, reading
the letters I wrote myself, I am stepping out from behind the gun, freed,
cleared, without guilt, stick a hand through—go on, see what you can
find, disgrace is graceful, misplaced egos are put away again, honestly is a
dish best served at any temperature, I am rewriting my myths of fragile,
I am chipping at my walls, I am the vulnerable thing, here are all my
fears floating like fish in an aquarium, feed them or just look, here is all
my ugly blooming like peonies in my grandmother’s favorite vase, if my
grandmother could afford a favorite vase, I break the windows of my
bedroom to let the air in, the worms of myself crawl to the face of the
soil, unashamed, shined upon, and for the first time, I do not blush.