Such Sharp Teeth

by Rachel Harrison

I clench my teeth and take a minute to allow the reality to fully set in, as much as I’d prefer to hang out in the cozy palm of denial. I brace myself for the inevitable cycle of emotions.

It knows it can catch me because it’s the predator. And I’m prey. It’s not the first beast to see me this way. Might be the last, though.

It’s a particular form of torture that I wish I were alone in, though I know I’m not. For some reason I can never fully trust my own experience. I’m always treating myself like an unreliable witness. I offer no empathy, only an endless cycle of interrogation.

...well damn.

The damage is there, but it’s ghost damage, haunting my body like it’s a goddamn Victorian manor. No one can see it but me. No one knows it’s there except for me.

She, like me, suspects that exhibiting a sliver of vulnerability will cause the universe to implode.

But it’s a predator, so it can’t be graceful, because grace is a virtue, and predator’s virtues all serve a violent purpose, so they really aren’t virtues at all.

I could continue to ponder the nature of trauma, overanalyze, drag up my past, search for connections like a basement-dwelling conspiracy theorist. But that feels like a lot of work.

It’s an alive thing, this pain. A hurt with arms and legs, hands and feet. A hungry, anxious mouth.

“I’m up to it,” I say, even though I’m exhausted and in pain. I’m the soldier marching forward despite the arrows in my chest.

Well DAMN

I learned young how to pretend like bad things never happened.

can’t default to avoidance. I can’t distract myself or dissociate. And I feel certain I’m about to vomit in this Party City.

universal female experience

It’s a message from Ian. It says, Thinking about you. What else is new? I text back. Not a thing.

My body answers with another heave, because I belong to it more than it belongs to me.

“Mom. I don’t.” The lie is so big, it barely fits through my lips.

My eyes close, and it’s here. The transcendent knowledge that nothing can touch me. That I’m not in danger, because I am danger.

She can’t heal me, and I can’t heal her. No matter how badly we want to heal each other, we can heal only ourselves.

Maybe it’s stupid to be so moved by this, but I told him I was angry, and he didn’t judge me for it. He wasn’t turned off by it. He accepts it, is giving me space for it.

think she’s trying to tell me that I should be grateful for my trauma because it’s somehow positively contributed to my personal development.

let her cry on the other side of the couch. I don’t comfort her because I shouldn’t have to comfort her. It’s my bad thing. My rotten thing. My burden.

This grin suggests he’s ignorant of danger. Suggests he assumes he is stronger. Assumes he is safe. I wonder what that’s like, to assume safety.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” She finally looks up from her scarf. “Because I knew you would be forgiving, and I wasn’t ready to be forgiven.”

When I get out, I don’t avoid my reflection. It’s me. It’s just me. Wild and fierce and imperfect.

I hold him, my anchor. His presence a salve. His scent like magic to me.

And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” I may, David Byrne. I may.

I forgot. I’m so used to being reminded how ugly a place the world can be, I forgot it could be beautiful, too.

A sound reigns over the night. This time, it comes from me. It’s all of me. All my rage, all my pain, all my strength, all my love. When I howl, I howl with everything I am, every fiber of me, in every form, every phase. Past, present, future.

This body is mine; it belongs to me. I’m here inside it, in control.