where are you
where are you
where are you?
                              Not here.
please come back,
I miss you, but
would never
                               say.
your presence; I've
become addicted
to your presence.
                               where?
a five minute walk
north of where I
sit in this minute.
                               you?
please just return
your face, your smile
your voice, warmth
                               are.

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

I couldn't tell you
how many poems I've read
about girls in disguises,
girls hiding in their closets,
girls acting like girls,
wishing they were something more...

This is not a poem about wishing,
but a poem of being.
This is not a cry for help,
but a song of assurance.
I am a girl, but I am no feminist.

You won't find me painting
on makeup each morning
for confident clarity.
{red blemishes flourish}

You won't find me tearing
my feet up each night
to look tall and fancy.
{bruises on the heel}

You won't find me wearing
a red push-up bra
for emotional support.
{endless back pain}

You won't find me shaking
while holding a gun
for protection.
{fear is stupidity}

I couldn't tell you
how many girls I've seen
doing these things,
over and over;
girls wishing they were something more...

This is not a poem about hope,
but a form of being.
This is not a scream of pity,
but an equalist view.
I am a girl, but I am no feminist.

I choose to be myself,
despite the boys who call me odd;
despite the girls with envious eyes.
I choose to play video games at 2am
and eat until I feel sick.
I choose to wear band tees to the bar
and go home alone.
I choose to say what I mean
and suffer the consequences.
I choose to wear less clothes,
and sometimes more,
when I want.

I've found someone
who loves me for who I am.
I've found two people, in fact.

There is a boy
who comes over
and I can call him my love;
I can call him my best friend.
There is a boy
who never judges
the boy in me;
the things I do.
There is a boy
who reminds me
a lot of a girl,
who picked flowers with her mom
when she was little.

And sometimes,
I put on makeup for you,
because I love you,
and I want you to know I'm proud.
Sometimes,
I'm proud of myself,
because I got the eye liner just right.
And sometimes,
I like acting fragile
so I can do less work
and watch as you tire in sweat.
Sometimes,
I even shout my worries to the sky.
But moderation is so important
in a time so rigid
with lust.

There is a girl
who is me,
and that boy
and that girl
both know who I am.

I am sick of complaints;
I am sick of the 1950's attitude;
I am sick of excuses;
I want to see action;
and I don't mean a protest.

And maybe you like
being a girl.
Maybe you dress up
purely for yourself,
and no one else.
But that doesn't explain
the things that you say
in public and in retrospect,
as tears fall down your cheek,
and knives glide off your tongue.

I see more of it every day --
girls just like me.
You are only weak if
you believe that you are.
You are only a girl
if you think that you are.
I am a human being,
and so are you.

I am no feminist.