Time keeps passing
I've heard it said that life goes on
Every year another change to the face
I spent my whole life growing
Each turn another phase
of the moon in my mind, glowing
This body no longer suits my discontent
This body didn't begin here; this is now

Time
Fickle thing, the word we use
to tell our stories straight in order
A thing you touch on your skin
this line, wrinkle, spot
showing every smile you didn't hold within;
every joke not forgot
This body no longer suits my discontent
This body belongs to my story

Skin breaks down over time,
so why do we worship it?
The moon will fall in its time;
it still glows
Our stories will be lost in our time;
we still write them
Our bodies will turn into soil
Treat your compost well
It'll be time, soon

Hands off
Bans off
Privacy invaded
This system that we broke
can't go a day without
being sedated
World views - outdated
We've come back to a time
when we have less autonomy
than a corpse
and all the men who said
they'd fight for their sisters
are silent
as the rights are stripped away
from the women they insist they never
Hated

Left
Aghast, Agape, Aggrieved
The open mouth of the
-Cave-
Yawns at me (ME!)
Ice breath washes over my face
(It) smells like the sea
below where we know;
where creatures live
that do not
-Breathe-
and never Grow
;

A shattered wing (of glass)
that never flew
and does not whisper to (or in) the wind
The ice-touched bird lent snow to branches
which wept songs that sang their sorrows
across the promised land
We drank the truths none dared to tell
(We didn't understand)
and dared to breathe the midnight waters
(the well was cold, our senses left)
Not night, but death;
our dying
breath

We soften our No's
with Thank You's and apologies
We have to tell you we're important
to people like Mother and Father
before you see us as valuable
It's like being Someone's daughter
is more important than just being
Someone.
But we're privileged, of course
We can have jobs like you
and isn't Free the Nip a thing, too?
'Feminism is outdated'
you say to all the women you claim
you never hated
You tell her to cover up
(she's just feeding her baby)
but you never think to look away
You use the bible as your excuse
but never want to pluck out your eye
or pay for your version of the truth
What's wrong with her?
Why is she so rude?
That's a funny question to ask
Let's not ask it twice
when so many women have bled
(and died, or worse)
for the simple act of being nice.

When do we get respect?
We're told from a young age
to respect our elders,
to obey - not just listen
We're told we don't know better
because we're kids
Then we become adults
and still, we're treated as less.
What is respect to the modern man?
Is it blind obedience
and a fear of arguments
in all forms,
or is it the sensation I get when I see women supporting women?
But you don't respect that.
Actually, the idea of respect that I've been taught versus
the reality I have experienced
is showing me more and more
that when older people
demand 'respect'
they usually mean fear
and complacency.
But I'm not afraid anymore.
I know what respect is.
You do, too, or else you wouldn't spend
so much time teaching us
that respect is synonymous with terror.
And I think that you spend so much time
demanding our fear
because you are afraid of us.
You are terrified of
the girl with colored hair,
the boy who wears a dress,
the woman who demands autonomy,
the man who stays home with his kids,
the artist who sings about the abuse you dished out,
the little babies sleeping in their gender-neutral rooms.
You are afraid, and we're not.
But it's basic respect, isn't it?

Blue
They call it the color of sorrow
and use it to depict
deepest sadness and mournful
sentiments
:::
Blue
The color of tears
The color of the stormy sea
The color of veins in ice cold skin
:::
I say that Blue is not the color of sorrow
It is the color of the dress
she wore to her first date
It is the color of her eyes;
and don't they look like the sea?
:::
And the sea isn't sad - it's beautiful
and full of life, like her smile
when she sees her favorite flower;
Bluebells

It's nighttime in this new place
where everyone feels at home.
In the dark, the lights of the city prosper
and laughter fills the streets
as bars empty out
and their patrons go home
You follow her;
not for a particular reason
You don't know her
none of her features strike you as familiar
or interesting
She was just there, where you were
and now you're going
to where she will be
She goes into her home
Safe, supposedly
You enter after her
unseen, unheard
until you strike
You are killing her
and she begs you to stay
so that she doesn't die
alone
...
You Leave

We seek inspiration
from the inspired
forming a dance in our heads
to the music sung of passion
we do not possess
Some gift given - sweet as dust
dangerous as rust
to blood
as your artist twists,
a hand reaching - fingers pointed
The music dips
and the lights go out.

No One knows
who More is
but none will ask WHY
WHY is a Thing in a tree
in a lake
And only No One knows why
WHY is this way
But More is not in a tree in a lake
or a question
or an amount
More is a Gate set in Stone,
No One could tell you,
by a Grave unmarked and UNknown

The graveyard Closed
some night ago - some time ago
and Left SomeOne Behind
The Things who Fled
to Soot-Covered beds
would Know who More is
and why SomeOne asked for Her
More is a Beast
and a Sigh
but who she is, No One knows,
and most are too Scared
to ask WHY

The Graveyard Closed some night
some time ago
SomeOne was Left - Behind
There is a knock upon the Door
SomeOne is let Inside
Inside - the house
it's quiet, warm
then Ice creeps across the floor
SomeOne is in the House
SomeOne who will ask for More

The graveyard has been Closed
The dirt replaced with Soot
The gate Locked up - Shut Tight
the Things
that were not here before
have Gone without a fight
They Left some night
some time ago
SomeOne was left Behind.

The graveyard is Overturned
the gate left unLocked
the dirt is disturbed
They are disturbed - those Things
that live in death.
The grass at the church is dead - in spring
when new shoots should rise
something is about to be revealed
something not meant
for our Eyes

You never want to listen to how I feel;
You only want to give me reasons
why I should not.
Someday, I will stop trying to tell you
and Someday, you will look up
and wonder at my silence
but I will be gone.

I was asked,
not for the first time,
to describe myself.
Everyone is asked this question
at least once
in their life.
I wonder
if everyone struggles,
like I do,
to define yourself
in a brief and acceptable way
We are all asked
what are our interests?
What food do we like?
What places have we seen?
But how do you even begin to tell someone
that your favorite place is not
special;
at least, not in the traditional sense.
My favorite place
is a bridge by a river
where at least once every so often
they find someone dead.
I like it because
the river makes a sound
in between a sigh and a bubble;
like the whooshing of wind
without the commitment to the sky.
It is not a beautiful bridge.
It is old, and concrete, and covered in moss
and graffiti of unsavory sayings.
But underneath the bridge,
there are large stones and pillars
where you can sit and watch the water
and wonder.
How do you tell someone all of that?
Of course, you don't.
You tell them
'I don't know, what about you?'
and go your separate ways,
knowing you've both been
vague.

I am among the Here and Now,
where I find myself standing on the sidewalk
in the middle of a town full of people
and I suddenly feel small;
a profound, reaching feeling
that is called 'alone',
a single word that means everything
I realize that though I know
where I am
and I know each stone by name
I feel out of place;
the sort of misplacement that
makes me feel like a stranger
to my own heart
My own hands begin to feel like
raw, new skin
And I do cherish the words on my tongue
because they are the only thing
that feels familiar and real

Small;
a word engraved in every stretch mark
Like butterflies, our youth
who feast on sugar water
as though life
is a number on the scale
And isn't that what we taught them?
To be small.
And we don't say 'person',
we say 'big' and 'heavy'
we put sneers into the word 'fat'
and make it a creature to be afraid of
And when our loved ones crumble
like glass, or chalk
we are suddenly full of the love we refuse to give
we are compassionate to their struggle
because they're small.
"It's not healthy"
But neither is judging someone's worth
by the size of their waist
or the shape of their face
or the food on their plate
'Healthy'
is not a reason to hate.

A sickness spreads among us
a chill that runs blood-deep
we kiss the fevered brow of love
and mother's all do weep
we raise the flags of plague-hood
and fall upon the steep
of churches bright and merry
and wish our souls to sleep
we plead with the forgotten
the **** of death will seep
we beg our hearts, remember;
we're given what we reap

This is a dream
wrapped up in an idyllic ribbon of serenity
Our spoken fallacies
are thusly graven into stones
that grow and break
beneath the turntable of time
and are seen forevermore
as the truth
I braid this ribbon
into the hair of tomorrow
and create a golden crown
that we may use to rule
our lies

I am the corpse
that stares at the wall
with open eyes
I watch it fall
The dust rains down
a scattered heap
like snow
it falls
and I still sleep
I am the corpse
that stares at the wall
with glazed-over eyes
I see nothing at all
The rain comes down
like shattered glasses
like a clock
I measure the time as it passes
I am the corpse
that stares at the wall
with cataract eyes
I see it all
The fire dies down
like the crow
at church masses
like a feather
I drift in the wind as light flashes

She fills her heart with paper
and she fills her lungs with words
and when she breathes
her blood is a song
that her body wrote
She drapes herself in colored ink
and dances in the rain
and the water pools below her
in swirls of inky stains
She fills her heart with paper
and she fills her lungs with paint
and when she breathes
her blood is a picture
that her eyes drew
She drapes herself in poetry
and dances in the rain
and the water pools below her
in swirls of written pain
She fills her heart with paper
and she fills her lungs with soot
and when she breathes
her blood is a fire
that her mind created
She drapes herself in ashes
and dances in the rain
and the water pools below her
her words, like dragons, slain

She dances in a field of tiger lilies
Orange and gold stripes reflect from dew
Prowling and powerful
lightfooted as a breeze
She wages quiet wars with Him
whose power comes from anger
while hers comes from passion
He seeks obedience
from his docile, dancing lily
She seeks the seafoam waves
that come with liberation
His garden is thorny
His roses are prideful
He holds bated breaths
What could stall her arrival?
He scoffs at her liberty
as she plucks a thorn from her feet
and shoves it down his throat

I saw someone today
a flash of pretty brown hair
and honey-pools called eyes
We met in a tree hanging over the river
and sang songs that touched the skies

I saw someone today
silky skin giving way to calloused hands
and blood rushing thick and dark
We met in a cavern that led to a fire
of which we both had sparked

I saw someone today
with scraped knees
and a smile as bright as a star
We met in a field full of flowers
and held hands that were covered in tar

I saw someone today
with cold hands
and a feverish head
We met in a ditch at the side of the road
and I hoped that she wasn't dead

I saw someone today
with a pretty white dress
and stitched up heart
We met at a place where we all go
and I sang her to sleep at our part

A mother is a special thing
You only get one, after all
A mother tucks you in
and holds you when you have bad dreams
even if she hasn't slept a wink herself
A mother makes you your favorite food
even though she's tired from work
A mother tells you
that you're a handful
but really means her heart is full of you

I try to be a positive person
I acknowledge my strengths, which are also my flaws
I am passionate, devoted, and I strive for self-growth
These are all great things
except for the times when they aren't;
the times when I see news articles about little girls
who were ***** and impregnated
and killed themselves rather than deliver the baby
that their ****** put inside them
I am passionate about this subject
I am devoted to working for a change
so that the next girl has the rights over
her own body;
so that the next girl has the right to choose her own life
over a life ruled by violation
and I strive for the self-growth to be patient
but I am angry
I am angry for that girl, yes
and also for myself
I, as a woman, do not have the rights to make decisions
for my own body
I cannot walk into the doctor's office and schedule
a procedure to stop me from
ever having children
without my husband's consent
without having already birthed children prior
and I am also not allowed to have an abortion in
nine states, even at the risk of my own life
and that's just in the United States
I am angry because it is legal
for doctors to stitch me up extra tight after giving birth
to please my husband
at the risk of my health and safety
and they don't even have to ask me about it
I am angry because I as a woman am treated
like I am a weaker, lesser person
for the simple crime of being born with a slit
instead of a *****
And I am angry because there are still those
who would deny the existence of unequal treatment
between the sexes
simply because they have never experienced it
I am angry because women before me
have fought for rights to their bodies
that women today are still having to fight
tooth and claw to keep
and men have the audacity to say that feminism
is an overreaction
"Not all men"
but enough that women are still oppressed
even in a society where it has been
scientifically proven
that we are capable of making equality and equity
a reality
and yet deny its necessity

Tomorrow is an abstract concept
Stagnant and tepid and hopeful
We wait, awake beneath our blankets
in pitch darkness
as the hour turns
and it is still Today

Sweetly, slowly
Held gently within the grasp of life;
Plucked swiftly, quickly
as a crisp fall leaf torn from a wind-battered tree
and left to fall sweetly and slowly
Silently, sorrowfully
does the leaf spread its veins
and crumble as it is trampled
and shiver as summers end
greets winter with silent and sorrowful tears
that lay drying as ice on the cheeks of feverish children
Carefully, cautiously
do we approach the warmth once more
the leaves of yesterdays summers forgotten
and the memory of chaste winter kisses
left to flee from blushing lips
as we grow carefully and cautiously to
chase evening flowers
and put from our minds all thoughts
of orange and faded leaves

Terrors haunt my every sleeping hour
dreams of screaming soundlessly;
heartbeat quickening
hands unseen rendering me motionless
limbs attached but immobile and awkward
eyes blurry, unfocused
but still, I see the shadow in the corners of my vision
creeping closer with every heavy-lidded blink
I hear another set of breaths
and then I am staring into the eyes of something less than alive
but more than dead
because the dead do not whisper my name so sensually in my ear
and the dead do not caress my face
and smile horrific smiles down at me as I shriek
and no one hears

I stand in the hallway
just past sorrows door
I look over my shoulder disbelievingly
in awe of my own escape
that came upon me suddenly
One moment I was a ball of tears and single-minded self-pity
and in but a blink I am here now
something less than whole
but more than the empty vessel I once was
Now, forward

I walk in places closer to the edge than the center
and I see beyond into places no one has ever told me of
Do you lie awake at night and see behind your eyes
the glimpses of dreams you have not yet had?
I lie awake and see nightmares alongside new beginnings
and tears in the seams of my past
I have not held flesh in the same regard as I have held
the intangible
but I have seen the stars even as they have turned away from my glare
and I have seen fortune in the graves of lesser men
with hollow eyes and empty heads
I go beyond the edge
to seek, and to find; or to die.

Your paper smiles
drawn on with red and black and pink
do not lift your eyes or bare your teeth
Colorful; insecure, hidden
Where are your claws?
those that you flash to the sky and the dirt
dig into the earth
and uncover nothing
Where are your wings?
those wings without feathers, that do not touch the clouds
blackened as they graze the ground
and are useless but for show
Where is your voice?
those cries you silence, those screams you shush
broken and brittle and naked, exposed and bleeding
soundless

Throbbing veins
A fever brings unrest to my body
and desperation to my lungs
I cannot breathe; my great fear
And when I speak, my panic is mistaken for anger
And so I am away; now she takes my place
My emotions ebb, becoming her dispassion
and I am she
My lungs expand
But these are not my lungs
and this is not my name
I have no physical body of my own; only this, my sister-self
and a thriving consciousness
an infection in its own right
and a chill stillness within me
that marks me as less than human

There is a silence that hovers, lingers
it lurks in the ringing of my ears;
the violence of passivity
the broken remains of a living breath
crawl along the forest floor like a starved leech;
latching onto memories and learned behaviors
a puppeteered husk among the awake
trying to pretend that it's still alive
although it lacks the pulse to prove it
There is a sound that breaks, cuts
it hides in the crevice of my conscious mind;
the last beat of my own heart
although my lungs still breathe and my legs still walk
and my eyes still seek
for they have yet to find meaning in this charade
when behind them lies my brain
and ahead of my path, the water is still