if i had a piece of me left,
i would have at least given it to my mother.

international women’s day is not only to celebrate strong female leads, nor only to appreciate the accomplishments of the likes of Harriet Tubman and Ada Lovelace. they have both contributed to history, changed the course of life, and allowed us to live in the world we live in today, among other women who have fought and have proved their place in this life. these women fought stereotypes, and marked their names in history.
but today is also for the weak women; for the immigrant mothers who are separated from their loved ones, for the exploited workers in Bangladesh, India, etc..., for the women being trafficked on the borders, for the young girls forced into early marriage, for the women harassed and silenced in fear, for the ones you hear about daily but only in theory.
let’s celebrate women as a whole, because this is much more than achievements and titles, this is a fight for rights, rights that exceed historical achievements that occur once a decade. here’s to more titles, to more love, to more understanding, and to equality.

i’d do anything for you.
i’m afraid it won’t be done right, though.
if you ask of me to love you,
i might stab myself.
if you ask of me to take care of you,
i might stab you.
if you ask of me to touch you,
i might strangle you.
if you ask of me to rip my heart out,
i might break my ribs and lungs.

and blood and bruises and burns and scars;
all for you.

but once you ask only;
are you in love with me?

“yes.
a thousand times, yes.
but only in the afterlife.”

you burnt me whole
with your picnic candle.
(were you that eager to touch her?
and how does it feel, smooth unharmed skin?)
i am melted wax on dewy grass,
and i have to feel each one of her toes sinking into me,
with her screams growing higher
echoing somewhere in the core of the Earth,
(beyond the moon as well, she had aliens at their knees).
you spilt something,
you whispered her name over and over and over.
she spilt something,
she made me swallow it.
(you used to do that)

strawberries, cherries, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate sprinkles;
i ate your leftovers along with the ants.
you’ve woven me into her;
“how thoughtful! no one has ever bought me sunflowers!”
i barely remember the color yellow.
she has her finger down my throat,
i no longer whisper your name when i sleep,
but i whisper hers.
i lucid dream about her wearing my shoes,
over worn sneakers, if you care to know.
i untie hers and wear them
only to take them off
(take everything off),
drip honey all over your body
and melt into your arms.

i am wax again,
on dewy grass,
covered with sunflower petals and melted ice cream.
it is still her hand in yours,
“i love the grass, it seems comfortable on days like this.”

it reminds me of the mid August heat
of his old decaying teeth
it reminds me of the smell of paint
and music that makes me happy
of ukuleles
and faint bird chirps
of sumptuous velvet by my bare toes
and icing on cake
of cereal and sunday mornings
and mom’s freckles in the sun
of thunder and lightning
and mattresses pressed against my back
of the gold he embellishes me with
and old recordings on tape
of ee cummings and maya angelou
and a time were it was easier to live, but harder to survive
of Cleopatra and reigning women
of God and answered prayers.

yellow reminds me of elation and euphoria
and a field of sunflowers aching for me to dive in.