I fight for all those little girls in their tiny dresses
To be able to play outside, jump into that puddle of mud, and just love their lives, without being told that they're not ladylike
I fight for all those little boys who cry and aren't conforted, because "real men don't cry".
I want them to express their feelings, instead of becoming convinced that violence should be their only outlet.
I fight for all those little people who look at their bodies, and find they don't match the images in their heads, and automatically think "abnormal"
I want them to see their own beauty
I fight for all those women who are ***** without mercy and silenced when they dare speak up.
I want their strength acknowledged and respected.
I want their abusers destroyed.
I fight for all the people who are taught their bodies are shameful, and not worth celebrating.
I want them to be proud instead.
I fight for all those infants who are opperated on without their consent, in hopes of being made "normal", even at the cost of their health.
I want them to be left untampered with.
I fight for all the people who do not fit into the tiny little boxes society, and are deemed unworthy.
I want them to be celebrated.
You call me an angry feminist, hoping I would find it insulting.
Instead, I thank you. Because fighting for people is what feminism is all about.
If you saw that fighter in me, I can only be proud. It means I am not wasting my time here, like you are.

Ten snorts, six twitches and four eye squints later
Despair starts kicking in.
I've lost control of my body again.

Perfect lines and circles and scales,
Preset shapes and purples to blues to greens
Left, then right, then left and right again.
Mismatched pairs and my lungs are closing up.

relentlessly tapping along to my thoughts,
desperate to drown out the silence overtaking.

Procrastination,
My fair lady,
Why must you compel me
To worship you
When I have so many and so urgent things to do?
Fine. So maybe it is not your fault.
So I'm just lazy. Okay.
But you are so tempting.
Lulling me away
from so many chores
(Or a death by boredom - who can really tell?)
Sometimes you offer me the prettiest of pictures,
Sometimes the funniest of videos,
Other times merely my bed and the ceiling,
But more often books.
Beautiful, beutiful books.
So why should I scold you
For taking my time
When those are the hours
I most lovely spent?

The happiest sound
Leaves under my feet
The magic of autumn
Crunching underneath

Dancing with my puppy
Nibbles on my toes
Happiness is seeping
Through tiny bite holes

A river in springtime:
Water cold as ice
Caressing my ankles
Such happy delight!

Eighteen years here;
So surprising still
How soothing it is:
A stroll down the hill

Everybody's walking
'Round in circles
Promising the shadows
To keep searching
For the hidden answers
For the thrown out child
With the hateful parents
And the sole desire
For acceptance and a little while
Free of judgement,free of hateful comments
And yet do they mean it?
Do they really care?
Maybe they just want to
Be regarded heroes
By the clueless masses
And be it the case
At least they're not spitting in the child's face
For the so called fault that he has

You love to brag
Only thing you're good at
You say I'm the most important thing to you
and yet
you have no idea how old i am,
what my favourite colour is,
you try to feed me jelly even though I'm alergic.
You know my mental sanity is precarious
I'm crumbling.
But you insist on stressing me out
time after time.
Stop.
Start over.
Or better yet,
just leave
Best you could give me is peace. silence
Your absence, the most thoughtful of gifts.
Relief at last.