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c
o v e r s t o r y
Pursuing
the Femme Identity
by
Andrea Spoehrer
f e a t u r
e s
Revealing
the "psuedo-invert"
Una, Lady Troubridge
by
Alison Phipps
Ashes
in the Paint
by
Michelle Bancroft
c o l u m n
s
Health
by
Dr. Lipstick
Wealth
by
Ms. Moneygrrl
Sex
by
SexySuzi
Advice
by
Victoria
Fashion
by
Dara
Femme
Perspective
by
Kenya
Butch
Perspective
by
D
Publisher's
Note
Letter
from the Editor
Contribute
to Femme
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Ashes in
the Paint
by Michelle Bancroft
(continued,
page 4)
Some
tell me that I will heal from your death. Their "well wishes"
are good intended but leave me enraged and empty. And so I ask
them, what is this state of "healed" anyway? Maybe one can breathe
a little easier, get laid and even feel the sun pretty darn often.
Maybe even love again and maybe even want to live. But I know
I will never be the same. Never. As I tell my orphan friend, Daddy,
the only true absolution for she and I will be to rest with our
Mama and Daddy again.
Others
keep suggesting that I should see a therapist or go to a grief
support group. Why? So I can play some mental game with your death?
So I can hear about "how to get on with my life" and when I talk
of being your girl they think I'm talking about my "inner child"?
No thank you. Just give me my art; a place to scream and wail
as loud as I can; and another orphan who understands.
I
awaken to an unexplained, chilling nausea. And then I remember.
It is that same sickening feeling of being forced to be the competent,
strong Mommie who took care of you all those months. I pulled
every once of courage I ever had out of my soul and from yours,
my darling. I would never leave your side, no matter what. And
I thought, if Daddy could face his death that was tearing our
hearts apart with such strength and dignity, his femme would not
falter. I did not. But, honey, did you sense the well of hollowness
I felt inside when I told you, "it's ok to go...I'm strong, you
taught me well, I'll be ok, I'll protect myself...you can go".
And all the while the girl inside is crumbling, hiding, confused,
frightened, shaken. My world came to a grinding halt when you
stopped breathing. But, you see, I have found out that the world
does not stop for a lost little girl. It should.
I've
been consumed with the big WHY of it all. I know about all of
the "supposed-to-be's" and the now weightless promises. Why do
you leave me? Why do I have to figure out how to make "a life"
without you, Daddy? Why will I have to have other lovers, when
I only want to be yours? Why are you not where you are supposed
to be?? I was given no answers as usual.
Were
you watching as I painted for the first time late last night?
To get those paints out again with the smell of the oils, the
brushes, ripped my heart out. And I naively thought my heart could
bleed no more. I was wrong. I paint anyway, doubled over, screaming
and crying out to you. Suddenly, I began to feel you. You were
standing right behind me just like you always did. You were helping
me, guiding me, my forever teacher. Thank for that sweet taste
of heaven.
Widow.
The word still falls heavy upon my lips. I wear it proudly, as
a badge of honor, courage and a testimony to the strength of my
love for you. It is my Purple Heart. You see, we were on the front
lines, Daddy. You did not come back from that war. I did. You
have only been dead six weeks. And yet, even with all of this
confusion, rage and pain, I would not change a thing. I need you
as I always have. I love you as if you were still here. You are
worth all this suffering and all the suffering to come. Because,
I would have given you anything, my darling, even my life. But
I was not as lucky as you. My path is to be about picking of the
pieces of a life gone horribly off kilter. You were my rudder
in this world and how I trusted your navigation. Now I drift perpetually
in circles. And you are not much more than the ashes in my paint.
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