Claudia Rodriguez

Things have to come full circle. I am checking my self here… because back on May 27, 2009 I wrote an entry called “Because I’m Fucken Queer till 2010” and said basically that I will catch you on the rebound. So here I am- one day after Judge Vaughn R. Walker of San Francisco struck down Pro. 8 declaring it unconstitutional. (Yes this post IS late- cause it actually happened on August 4th and today is not the 4th). I’m happy about the results, we know that the battle is not over (rolling my eyes) but we can still celebrate- we have to celebrate the small victories to keep us going to the next one. Small victories that fuel our strategy, fuel our passion. Even though my niece is already making plans to plan my wedding, dolphin themed at that! I am not ready to take that step. Not because I don’t believe in marriage etc I am familiar with it’s chameleon-and-one reasons it’s been institutionalized in societies, I believe in the principal of the thing and of course there is the emo

I look at my wound A fleshy calaca Speckled with pink and red dots where hair follicles Once existed. It is my cortada with its rosada edges an umbra of swollenness. I look at my wound Slimy como un gargajo Me llena de asco But why does my mouth water when I look at it? I focus on the pain Feel it throb up and down my arm Makes my nails tingle I feel the throb until my clit tingles. I ignore my cut for days Leave it exposed, victim to the elements Vulnerable to infection. “Huh I should put something on it. Some ointment or something.” I research the web under branding and in the process Learn about the highly infectious nature of burns. One degree more and I could’ve damaged the nerve endings. I cover my wound with a Band Aid To silence the pain. My thoughts get the best of me I get chilled with loneliness, paralyzed with irrational fears My thoughts run wild ever present bare like bones I reach for the Band

(sound of voices praying) I stopped being a Catholic when I was thirteen, but I still can’t stop confessing, professing my shit, yeah exhibitionist to the core, the showing must go on. I was borne to be an artist. I like pain. I do. It’s always lived in me, so I learned how to like it. I learned how inflict it on myself, cutting, pulling the scabs, branding. I’ve always done it alone, to myself the technique growing with time. Why? Uhhhh it feels so fucken good you just don’t know. The next day any movement reminds you of the soreness, breathing alone can cause it to sting. Maybe I’m really a submissive. Submissive. It’s an exercise in letting go. I’m not gonna try to control my life. I have to let it go, like I once did. I’d close my eyes believing in the feeling, the safety I felt in those prayers those fears laid down to rest in between those pages. But that type of faith seems so long ago and the memories turned bible page thin. I didn’t want to stop believing that things