Have You Ever Been Mine?: A Letter to My Body

By Ava Balis

This poetry and art collection explores the ways in which the body comes to be defined by others until one's own self-worth becomes intimately tied to these definitions and expectations. This is a memoir told though poetry and art, entwining experiences of eating disorders, self-hatred, and hurtful relationships through one co

• Language: English
• Publisher: Riza Press
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999227265

Ava Balis

These poems were written and compiled throughout 2018, emerging unintentionally out of a series of introspection-provoking experiences. The writing of this collection sparked in Ava Balis a love for expression through poetry; and between its first draft to its publication, Balis has compiled a poetry anthology, titled "Mosaic" (published in April 2019), and founded Riza Press in May 2019. believing creativity is an essential human expression, she works to promote art in any shape and form through making publishing more accessible and helping creators reach a public audience more easily. Through Riza's publications and annual poetry and art journal, she hopes to help others find the same solace in creative expression that she has found.

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have you ever been mine?

by ava balis

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have you ever been mine?

Copyright © 2018 by Ava Balis

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First Printing, 2020

Printing information available on the last page.

ISBN 978-1-9992272-7-2 (sc)

ISBN 978-1-9992272-6-5 (e)

Riza Publishing Press

Ottawa, ON, Canada

www.rizapress.com

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author’s note

I don’t think writers love their words for long.

By the time a manuscript has been edited, illustrated, and formatted, the words have often been outgrown like old shoes. There is a delay in the process. And there are two things to do, then, in the face of knowing this inevitability this: (1) never create, or (2) create, knowing everything shooting passionately out your fingertips right now will someday be outgrown. The trick is to be okay with this. To be okay with flux. To be compassionate for your growth, instead of critical. Creativity does not breed well in criticism.

And the permanent written word forges some kind of idea of a continual self, when I believe there is none. We are ever-changing beings - so why would we not create like ones? We cannot hold ourselves accountable for who we once where and what we once made; what an internal prison sentence that kind of guilt and responsibility would be! So many writers never re-read what they’ve written for that exact reason.

The only way to write healthily - and to maintain joy in the process - is to understand its impermanence. Like everything else in life, it is impermanent. It flows through you: it doesn’t stay. You can only hope what flows through you flows into other ears and colours their lives for the better.

And so what is more important, always, is the intention over the product. We can sit here and criticize word structure and rhythm all day - and yes, there is a great art to that - but in the end, that is not how I choose to see why I write. Why do I write?

Publishing this collection (a back and forth decision for a couple of years now) forces me to come to terms with this question. I write as a medium for expression. I write in times of pain, introspection, or growth. And I write because the idea of sharing experiences or lessons through words (the most beautiful - yet often frustrating and bewildering - medium of art I know) makes my heart flutter more than anything else.

As did these words once, even if I was much younger writing them and they seem today like old (admittedly choppy and awkward through my self-critical lens) echoes of who I used to be. Oh well. I think we should love the people we used to be, too. It’s a sad thing to hate something you’ve made that others might find beautiful just because you’ve outgrown it. It’s a part of you. And absolving yourself of the idea that your words are a permanent stamp on you is, I think, the best way to keep going at this craft.

So: here it is. These are the words I needed to hear once. I hope they find a welcome home in other ears.

- Ava Balis, January 2020

ava balis

I see my body

in the change room mirror

and start picking it apart

piece

by

piece,

but the eyes I’m picking it apart with

are not my own;

the yardsticks I’m measuring it up against

are not my own.

They’re borrowed,

from years and years of moments,

of memories,

which have accumulated somewhere in the back of my retinas

until I think they might be my own;

I’ve claimed their ownership

and do you know how dangerous it is

to internalize other people’s voices?

Because you might believe they’re yours,

and that they’re so sure and true and reliable,

but really…

this is how they kill you

through you;

this is