things we

Pen-man-ship

Artwork by Lisa Burton

None of the pens in my house work anymore. Every time that I need to write something down, I open the drawer underneath the counter where our landline sits and rummage through it, grabbing all the pens that I can. I find the nearest envelope or take-out menu and begin to test them. The pens leave their last faint traces of black ink on the paper, and although in their useless state they belong in the trash, I return them to the drawer. I keep them because I believe if I scribble in the corner of the page hard and fast enough, I will see ink flow again, and maybe the pen will come back to life. I want to believe that all my dead pens will one day write again. 

Maybe I just need to be scribbled and ink will flow out of me to create something beautiful, but these days my ink has turned to blood like water into wine. When was the last time that I was touched that I didn’t bleed? I guess that means that I still work, but blood doesn’t create anything beautiful. It stained my new pair of panties that match my bra that pushes my chest into something desirable. The guy who took me home on Friday night had to see me mismatched because of it. It broke his heart that I did not dress that morning just so he could undress me, even though I tried my best to. That I did not take the time to consider how he would feel about my ugly panties, even though I never wanted to bleed at all. I know it’s my fault that I bleed when I’m touched. I know that it’s my fault that I have to wear bras too. 

A boy in middle school told me that he could always guess a girl’s bra size, so when he told me I looked like a 32-B I accepted it as my gospel. When he asked me to be his girlfriend I texted him yes, and when we broke up a week later, I still apologized because I hadn’t thought that he would need more than my open arms. I’ve grown up since then, once I understood that hugs must become kisses and kisses are supposed to move south, so I bought more bras, size 34-C this time, to feel like I had accomplished something in my womanhood that actually mattered. My other great achievement: I got my nipples pierced. A woman with a shaved head and a tattoo of a mandala on her scalp shoved a needle through that part of me that is most delicate so that when I take off my now size 34-C bra I don’t feel disappointed, which is really saying that now a man won’t be disappointed. It’s supposed to be a surprise for those worthy of undressing me, although I find myself telling everyone I know, because really everyone that wonders is worthy.

I am edgy for this and fearless too. I’m not scared of needles or pain. I am not scared for you to touch them, go ahead, it feels better now more than ever. Don’t mind the blood. One time a man ripped out one of my piercings, and after he left my room at 5 AM I sat on my bed and stabbed myself to put it back into place, maybe because I had paid sixty dollars for it or maybe because my nipple looked naked in its natural state. Vulnerable and still bleeding. 

One boy was too scared to touch, too scared of hurting me, so I pulled his fingers down to the part of myself I still don’t know how to name. At first his fingers grazed in the way I always imagined fingers could, but then he preferred to shove his fingers inside of me instead. I let him; I breathed heavily and squealed in delight even as all of my blood seeped out of me, turning me into a corpse. I might be dead but at least there’s no more bleeding and he can fuck me like he wants to, without having to pretend that he needs my squirming body beneath him to feel me, to revel in me, to love me. 

What if I had said no before he pleasured me and killed me and fucked me and loved me? I stand in front of my mirror and force my tongue upward to the roof of my mouth and release it downward to formulate the consonant, but I get stuck on the vowel. I try to imagine my voice and I can’t because I can’t remember the last time I heard it. There was one moment in the woods when I picked up my phone and my mom said hi and I said it is so good to hear your voice right now. Maybe I could speak in her voice and I could say no but then I think of how she paints her nails red instead of blue because my dad likes red and he doesn’t like blue and I think that no voice is still better than that. 

My dad hates that the pens in my house don’t work. He will throw them away, even without a scribble. Maybe he’ll do the same to me one day once he realizes that I’ve forgotten the sound of my own voice and bought my own bras and let a boy fuck my corpse. I would float among the rotting banana peels and the brown guacamole that fill the trash in our kitchen, with the chocolate chips my mom pours out just so she doesn’t eat them, all sprinkled on top of me. There are worse existences than to be smothered in chocolate.

Though maybe he will try to scribble me and will find a little ink left in me. He’ll put me back in the drawer, where I’ve lived my whole life, and where I’ll wait again for another pair of masculine hands to grab me. A pair of hands in need. I will form the letters the hand writes and maybe then I will finally be beautiful, the vessel for someone else’s creation. Maybe the hand will even keep me after, consider me a good pen, a sturdy pen and put me in his backpack. 

He will leave me there until he needs me again. I’ll always be there, I promise baby, I need you to save me before I dry out. Promise that you’ll scribble me. Use me and use me again, remember I don’t say no. At least don’t forget about me. At least throw me in the trash if you lose faith and smother me in chocolate and I’ll always think about the way your hand held me tightly and made my ink finally flow and I’ll be thankful for it. Bury me in your duty, I’m yours. I’ll try not to bleed out in your pocket, but if I do, leave me there in your pants and throw me in the washer, and I’ll finally be clean. No more blood. No more ink either, but again there are worse existences.

Maggie McQuade recently graduated from Boston College with a B.A. in English and a minor in Women’s and Gender Studies. She is currently working as an Experience Design Analyst for Slalom in Chicago. Both in her career and her daily life, she hopes to use her passion for writing and creativity to make connections and inspire positive social change in her community.

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