green ribbons, sharp teeth & secret diaries

When I was eight I slipped. My canine tooth pierced through the edge of my bottom lip but at the time I thought I had seriously fucked up my teeth. There was so much blood on the bathroom tiles of my boarding school bathroom. I would trace shapes on those same tiles with my pinkie in the shower. Sometimes I’d scare myself when I saw a monstrous face look back at me in the swirling peach patterns. Now they were splattered with blood. The whole blurred like I was in a poorly lit, charming yet amateur student short film. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

I visited the doctor with my dorm auntie and a friend, just watching the blood run and run and run down my face, all over my hands. It was probably my first time truly considering my mortality. It was all fine in the end, and we ended up joking about how sharp my teeth had to be to go through my lip.

I never told my parents or anyone else about what happened, but every time I looked at the scar on the corner of my face it felt like I had a secret of my own, which made me smile.

I used to love secrets. They felt parallel to femininity, but genderless. Secret diaries, Nancy Drew books and magnifying glasses had somehow slipped through the cracks and become a “girl” toy. I didn’t have any secrets yet, but the idea of growing up and being able to use all of these tools of observation and detection made me feel very mature.

It’s not that I particularly like keeping serious secrets, but one or two harmless ones made me feel giddy like sipping my mum’s “pink drink” (which I later learned was rosé). I still love harmless secrets like having a crush, a perverted fetish or a secret talent. Always something more to reveal if someone leaned in close at a bar and told me to tell a secret. A decoy to avoid talking about the not so pretty stuff.

I read The Husband Stitch by Carmen Maria Machado when I was first trying to find my voice. It stuck with me, because the green ribbon became a representation of secrets as a form of autonomy. The ribbon was something that you kept for yourself, selfishly and indulgently. It wasn’t malicious, but something that no one else would ever gain access to (and if they insisted it, you would unravel).

I think a lot about what my green ribbon would be. It’s romantic to think about a place you can unravel without witness. Unfortunately I need to reveal my soul to feel wanted for what I am, rather than the “illusion” I project (which is some backwards emotional logic, since the illusion is still a part of me). Yet I still want to have something for myself. Something that never makes it to the camera or page. I still don’t know if that’s wrong and whether I will inevitably reveal everything eventually. I don’t know if I will pick up more things to bind in green ribbon along the way. I share so much of myself. My body, my writing, my fears, my skeletons in the closet. My green ribbon is fluid, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I feel genuinely motivated to keep sharing my work on this site, thank you for another lovely week

🦷, willow

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.
softskinlatex zine scan from tumblr

1. the web is yours poster

2. second skin about fetish culture

3. my body is a prison of pain so i want to leave it like a mystic but i also love it & want it to matter politically

4. the husband stitch by carmen maria machado

5. FROM THE WORLD OF STRENGTH a zine by soft skin latex

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