Jill Malone

Brain:  What do you mean, you agreed to a 10K Trail Run?

Mouth:  You’ve been thinking about it, too.

Brain:  Sure, the way I think about chucking it all and running away to New Zealand to raise goats.  Do you have any idea what you’ve done?

Mouth:  You could have stopped me, Smart Guy.

Brain:  Oh, so this is MY fault?

Legs:  Wait, wait, what’s happened?

Brain:  Apparently, we’re training for a 10K run.

Legs:  No thank you.

Lungs:  Why would we do that?

Mouth:  Quit your bitching.  We’ve agreed.  And it’s final.

Brain:  Maybe one of our knees could give.

Legs:  Shut up, you.

Brain (to mouth):  Why did you tell her yes?  Why did you even engage in the conversation?  You know she’s got us all figured out.

Mouth:  I couldn’t help it.  None of us can help it.  You know that better than I do.  Anyway, we’ve agreed.  And it’ll be good for us.  We’ve been saying for ages that we wanted to be fit and lean again.

Brain:  We meant yoga.

Legs (among themselves):  We never get any say in this.

Stomach:  I know what you’re all thinking and you can just lay off.  It’s not my fault.  This is where everything ends up, but I didn’t start any of this.  I am not responsible for the state we’re in.

Brain:  We all know who’s responsible for this.

Mouth:  Fuck off.

Brain:  Just sayin’.

Mouth:  You do your job and I’ll do mine.

Stomach:  Oh, just drop it, can’t you?  First carrots and yogurt for lunch, and now this.

I freaked myself the fuck out reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  I could go the rest of my life without reading another rape scene.  I know the point of art is to reflect and clarify life.  To distill reality.  To chop and reassemble experience.  And, still, for all that, I don’t want to read another rape scene.  I don’t want to see another rape scene either.  I HATED every minute of the movie Taken.  I wanted to scream and go outdoors for a long walk.  This shit is happening.  It’s happening and we’re entertaining ourselves with our outrage.  Look, that vigilante guy is going to kill every freaking pervert in the place! Isn’t that fantastic!  Isn’t that justice!

And, you may well ask, is it any better to kill a pregnant woman in a snow storm?  Of course not.  Of course it isn’t any better.  We all have our stories. And sometimes, they’re simply the stories we’re willing to tell. But I will never write a rape scene.  Not ever.  I would spare all of us if I could.

My muscles are sore.  It’s marvelous.  I can feel the cilia of my lungs.  There’s a cathedral in my torso.  A temple of arteries, organs, and blood.  The hum of nerves.  My legs protest just above the knees.  The rapturous miracle of endorphins.

Sometimes my panic names me.  Holds me to the mat, and won’t release me, even after I’ve tapped out.  Enough, I plead.  Enough.  And still, I’m pinned.  Held down until I stop struggling.

Sometimes my head isn’t a safe place to be.

And I forget that I can be entirely my body.  I can run.  Fill my lungs until they burn.  Cycle up the hill, and let my hip bitch the whole way.  A symphony of complaints while the sun peaks and ducks and reminds us that everything is temporary.  Our thoughts are just thoughts.  Our aches, our worries, the mild January days, are fleeting.

So I’m pinned for a while.  I’ll climb slowly back up, wipe my mouth, raise my head.  I’ll own myself.

I’ll name myself.

I’ll break and mend.