Spilled Tea

We're Not Temples

(This was written on June 15th, just clarifying because life is wild right now)

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They've always said 'your body is a temple' and I disagree with that because temples are holy and humans are not.
Not yet, we're still being tried.

We're not temples, we're gardens that we're supposed to tend to and protect until we perish and hope that the garden is eventually self sufficient.

We're trying to figure out what is healthy and can be eaten. What is dying, poisonous, and needs to be cut out.

But what do you say when the parts of your garden that are private only to you are entered by boys that force their way in with muscles that are stronger than your own, and even your father doesn't condemn the action?
He blames it on the changing times but time is a made up concept that gets us through life and just because the news screams louder that it is happening more doesn't make it okay. It's not okay.

I shouldn't need the voice of someone saying that in my ear, but this has become a difficult truth to remember when the man that should be my fiercest protector who used to hold me in his lap blames these invasions on the 'allowance of gay marriage' and other 'unholy things.'

He thinks it's going to happen to me again and hearing his words strikes more fear in me because it feels as though even he believes all men view women as toys.

These boys' hands tore up my flowers and I can't tell what is supposed to be cut out or saved. The flowers that belong to the woman in my future whose hands are what I've been saving mine for.

There isn't much besides time that can heal trees that were meant to block out the all-too-hot sun but were burned out of humor, and the parts of this garden where decisions are supposed to be up to me, are gutted like a little boy scraping seeds out of a pumpkin.

No, our bodies aren't temples because temples deteriorate no matter how much refurbishing we try, but gardens can thrive through any storm. They can be replanted when death casts its shadow over them, just like our bodies can heal too.

There is nothing we can do to completely block out those who we should be standing up to, and when when we do, they're sometimes stronger (in a physical sense).

My father told me I need to tell the 'right people' when things like this happen so they can be 'fixed' because the boy is a 'good kid' who is just young and 'experimenting.'

But things like this don't get fixed and they brand your mind and body with hot iron until anyone's hands feel like they'll burn too, and the only ones you could ever want and trust are hers. You hate that.

You never asked for it and saying it is like acid because you feel unholy for even thinking those thoughts, especially right after what happened to you, but it's okay because a garden doesn't have to be holy.

I'm dumping buckets of water on my garden and into my mouth because acid makes me want to throw up, and I hate throwing up. I don't know if this water is drowning my garden or healing it.

I hate how dirty I feel, how dirty his hands made me feel.

I hate the concept of time and how my father's words don't make me feel safe anymore.

I hate things that don't have consent and this is not a redundant sentence. I know it is something that is 'obvious' in human nature, but it should be said more often so that maybe I can sear it into the minds of those who have seared mine with dark things.

I can't stop scrubbing my body raw to get the feeling of his hands off, and my God it hurts, but it isn't going away. It isn't.

My body is a garden and there is too much soap in my eyes and acid in my mouth for me to discern between what needs to be kept to heal, and the pieces that are making everything hurt worse.

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(Maybe this will make everything make sense as to why it was a big deal that my father was the one who held me as my entire body writhed in fear yesterday & called me beautiful as I fell)