Poetry by Laurence White

someday, I will love Laurence White
                        after Ocean Vuong
 
Laurence, I will not press you into this poem
like a flower. You are beautiful, you have known how
pages turn into hands. So quickly, and without
warning. Hands with no body except the one
above you. They will pin you to the bed as soon
as they decide you are art.
 
Laurence, I know you love the story of the
woman who climbed outside of herself, but you
don’t have to leave your body behind just
because someone forgot you were inside it. A
painting is never finished. Despite what they told
you, your body is not artwork. You are not a
painter. Put down the brush.
 
Laurence please come home. You have been out
too long searching for a version of yourself that
does not exist. Come home and sit at your own
table and eat.
As much as they tried to make you, you are not a
statue.
Eat.
There are people who want to feed you.
              Eat.
There is a person inside you begging to love you.
                            Eat.
Listen, I know you never thought you would
make it this far. That it never made sense to plan
for the future, but today you saw the ocean and it
​made you smile. 




The Artist Has Come Home
           
              I come home only to set
              parts of myself in boxes.
              Every section of me too difficult
              to witness placed neatly inside.
              I cover my arms in satin
              (thread count stacked high enough
              for my scars to not show through)
              and put on my grandmother’s pearls.
              I touch my neck,
              the bruise the sad, hot girl made there has faded,
              but I still catch my hands moving over it
              when my mother peers at me
              from the corners of our home.
              Dad comes to my room to say he loves me,
              but lets mother cut up my heart
              and piece it into cookies for my sister’s bake sale.
              She has the prettiest soul they say about her.
              She knows how to give.
The artist, I have come home.
the one who says
those funny things about our God
and feels too deeply, I have stepped inside.
Everyone senses something is wrong in me,
the way I
look down at the hardwood floors
and cover my stomach
in an attempt to contain.
There is no danger in this tall clean house.
They see no explanation.
My motive,
it is selfish,
it is insane.
I must not speak or I will scream
the blood curdling scream.
I am so angry all of the time.
I have lopped off most sense of self
to fit better in their church pews
and dinner party chairs.
I have lost so much mass as sacrifice.
I peer down at myself and wonder
what I would look like if I had never
been asked to grow up here.
 
I curl up in the kitchen as
pure beings of abstracted light lumber through
the domestic scene.
I scream into my pillow
or gawk at melting pots and pans.
Mother’s touch has begun to burn me
and I cannot understand the sound of her voice anymore,
all it makes me think about is blood.
It stains my sheets,
dripping
sticky & edible
from my palid thighs
were the self inflicted wounds reside.
I am their founder,
I admit I am proud,
but do not tell that to my mother.
               She locks the door and stuffs her favorite daughter
               full of sweet nothings.
               Septic belly,
               I vomit fowl feelings into the trash can.
               I am ignored, politely.
               Everyone continues their small talk,
               I hear I laugh along,
               hands covered in stomach bile and spit.
               In the mornings I take my pills,
               swallow them down like a good girl,
               watching my family’s portrait. 
               I can hear them clapping softly
               as I reach a more balanced state.
               Maybe one day I will become better at holding the proper pose,
               but you can always see the struggle in my face,
               my mother says,
               I never look at ease.

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Laurence White (they/them) is a non-binary Kentucky born poet who lives in Santa Cruz, California. Laurence has published one thing in one book and is about to release their premier zine For, Ever. Laurence recently released a collaborative bedroom EP under the name Chaotic Futch.  When Laurence is not speaking or listening, they are in silence or searching for its inexorable stillness. That is where you will find them.

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