I was born into a very old story of shame.
It wasn't mine to begin with. I've since learned it was my mother's, and her mother's and her mother's, and, your mother's. Like a baptism, I was dipped in the communal tar pit around the age of 2. My body touched, then told "Shhh, it's a secret." I loved him and so I protected his honor while my own dissolved before I was old enough to form a sentence. Funny how that works-- his secret became my story before I could speak.
By the time I was 6 I knew the drill: spread my legs, head down, eyes shut, keep it quiet. Love meant that I gave and they took. Saying no and having boundaries wasn't on the menu. No one ever said, "It's ok if you don't want to. It's ok to say no. I'll still love you." Love meant my body was here for the taking. Take what you need. Just tell me you love me. Don't worry. It's our secret.
As I grew into a female form, my hunger for love also grew. Some loved me. Some didn't. Some took and hated me for it. Didn't matter. By then I couldn't feel much anyway. I'd frozen in time. Only part of me existed, like a hungry ghost. I was a pussy and a mouth, but not for my pleasure or my stories. Just a vessel to prove I'm worth a little something. You'll love me if only for a night. But I'll carry your secret forever locked deep inside, in a place I collect all the secrets.
Again, funny how things work because I could see the hungry ghost in the eyes of every one of them. Taking to feed something inside themselves they couldn't see.
The tar pit of my insides widened and deepened, no matter how much cleansing and rubbing and scrubbing and meditation and pretty clothes and makeup. There are still places it sticks, like super glue. The blackest black you can imagine.
There's another one in here. She's got a big mouth, always rocking the boat and making people uncomfortable. I do my best to pull her back into the pit and hold her under until she remembers. We don't speak. We keep our head down and our mouths shut. We are the carriers of the secrets.