Do not approach me
for the use of my body;
I am more than that.

what was it like?  
Being ripped away from    
the only place you ever knew,  
the place you grew up in, what you called home.  
In a ship cramped between foreign people.  
Bones,  both yours and theirs, protruding,  
digging into your sides.  
Did this scare you?

How did it feel?  
Your neck, ankles, wrists chained.  
Your body binded to others  
who suffered the same fear of this unkown.
Frozen, immobile, confined to this state,
Uncertainty lacing the air
Your lungs filling with dread  
How did you breathe?  

what was it like?
arriving somehwere new,
completely different and obscure  
where you would be stripped of being yourself  
where your name and beliefs would not matter  
where you were judged by appearance  
and your abilities.
Did you know this?  

How did it feel?
Doing what they wanted  
Having no control of your life  
Being defenceless to them using you  
Them placing their hands where they should not be  
Sold as if you were an object  
Treated like animals  
Did that break you?  

What was it like?  
When they took them away  
without even a second glance.
as if they werent your most prized possession.  
as if your blood did not run through their veins  
When he said the boy was not his  
and refused to raise him  
Did that hurt you?  

How did it feel  
To be considered a slave?

The addiction of
Hands tangling
Together
Lazily

You said that you would give me
the world
that i was deserving of it

darling, no

i desire the entire universe
and i will not let you belittle me
into thinking i am only worth
the world

often, i put pen to paper.
i imagine myself writing up a storm that captures everyone's attention.
the storm will contribute to the chaos i am so eager to create.
unfortunately, my writing is not nearly as impressive as this.
pen to paper turns into a scribble of lines and words that don't fit together the way they're meant to.
pen to paper does not wreak havoc the way i wanted it to, instead, it ruins me.

i gave myself a week.
one week to be in awe of you,
one week to diagnose exactly what colours your eyes were
but then you stood in the sun and my research was nul and void.
One week to memorise every mark on your body displayed in public,
to remember every curve and dip that your clothes allowed.
One week to absorb everything you said and the way you said it and what you meant by saying it.
One week to pick up on your habits and stop the bad ones.
One week to appreciate the crinkle of your eyes every time you laughed or smiled or frowned or smirked.
I gave myself a week of you,
promised myself that after this week i would be done with you,
yoou would never cross my mind again
never again would i be so severely aware your presence.
I would be immune to you
it was meant to be easy and it was meant to be painless
one innocent week of thoughts of you.
but it's been two months and you are still engraved in my brain.
like an addiction i accidentally got hooked on and cant give up
i have tried to wash you out with distractions and other people,
by new hobbies and old habits
but none of that has worked
now i am slowly being consumed by the repetition of one week.

how do i, how do i formulate into words
what you have done for me?
how do i explain to the entire universe
the love you have for me?
how do i show everyone watching
the world's you've showed me?
how do i portray everything you taught me
when i am not done learning?
how do i show you that I love you when the
words are not enough?
how do i, with my barely-there talent,
express my appreciation for you?

how do i thank you
for bathing me,
for feeding me,
for teaching me,
for raising me,
for loving me?

These words
do no justice
to the gratitude
i feel for you.

Unfortunately,
they assume the worst of us
and we become that.

melodies blaring
trapping me in my own head
this is my escape

Amanda's Hunger

She has a habit of wandering off,
Whilst being in one place.
She'd be staring out the window
Manipulating what she saw,
Into what she wanted it to be.

"I'm hungry"
She'd say, mid mindless gazing,
Only it was rarely for food
But rather for exploration,
Discovery and experiences.

Her soul starved
Of authentic auras that warm you,
Of colliding chords that form aching symphonies,
Of chaotic creations by everyone and anyone,
Of galaxies that we are made from,
Of the beauty she longs to see.

And in these times,
Where her mind is everywhere else,
I imagine she is there where she belongs
With her chaotic people,
Blaring symphonies,
Clashing souls,
Expressive creations,
The Galaxy she is deserving of.

“take a deep breath” she would say
every time she saw my soft, smooth hands
curl up into tight fists, every time she saw
my relaxed stance turn tense and ready
for  a fight, “no” she would say “you are a
lady and ladies do not fight.” She would
proceed to drag me away to ensure that I
would calm down, to ensure that I would not
fight because “ladies do not fight”.
I spent far too much of my time being
dragged away from people to prevent a
fight from occurring because no matter
how many breaths I took, the calm never came.
After realising that the breathing was not working,
she would threaten that I would never find a
husband, for men do not like ladies who do not
obey, they do not like ladies who are always
fighting. This did nothing but add fuel to my fire
for I did not need a husband, especially
when I was meant to obey him like he was some
sort of god and I a damsel in distress. This was not
the type of life I had envisioned myself living. But
per her will, I stopped the physical fighting. It seemed
she had forgotten that fighting could be in the form
of words and she never paid attention to mine. So,
my fighting continued, just not in the way I had hoped,
but it was enough to get the message across, I was not
his slave, I would never be seen as inferior to him for
I was just as he was, so why should he be superior?
When I was older I had asked her why I was wasn’t allowed
to fight, why she stopped me every time. Her answer, as
predicted was “you are a lady and ladies do not fight”
I proceeded to ask her how she was okay with being considered
inferior to him, how she was willing to be and do whatever he
pleased. I watched her closely, and as she said “it is a woman’s
role to please a man, to do as he wishes” I saw her jaw tick
every so slightly, I heard her voice grow sharper and I
knew then, she did not believe a word she had said but it was
a woman’s role to obey, as far as men were concerned. And obey
they did. I asked her why she did this if she thought differently,
if she believed differently. We sat in silence, not a word said. She
had no answer. When I got up to leave, she asked where I was
going as we had a visitor coming, some gentleman who was
willing to marry me. “stay” she said “you might never find
another who is willing to marry you despite your aggressive ways”
And what am I meant to do with or for this man, I had asked her.
Would I be considered his equal or would I need to obey him,
become his slave? She had remained quiet yet again and that was
an answer on its own. I proceeded toward the door, “do you know
how much is at stake here? Where are you going?” she asked,
clearly worried that I would not attend this meeting, she had all
the reason to worry. “To fight” I had said “I refuse to sit quietly
and twiddle my thumbs for the sake of a man’s pride. I am his
equal, not his inferior. And perhaps you’re right, Ladies do not
fight, so perhaps that means I am not a lady. But do you know
what my fighting makes me? What my desire to be seen as equal
makes me? What my disinterest in being obedient to man makes me?
It makes me a woman and women are fighters.”

Despite my best efforts
I seem to look for her in crowded rooms
I want her to see what I've achieved
I crave knowing she is impressed by me
My eyes are traitorous and always look for her
The only problem with all of these facts
Are the pronouns.

sometimes it feels like
I am immersed in water
surrounded by sharks

Many have told me that I am either too young to write,
or too inexperienced.
"How can you write when it isn't from what you've done?"
Well, that's the beauty of writing isn't it?
I have all the power.
I have control over all the words I put down,
I am the master of scenarios,
I am their maker.

My body; no longer mine.
My thoughts; consumed by you
My heart; torn to pieces
My life; ruined by you.

How can you try to shame me
For the ***** of my breast
and the width of my hips
for the way my skin
curves and dips

For within me are the voices
of the phenomenal women
who stood before me
exclaiming to the army of men,
who labelled them inferior,
that we are their equal

There is no shame in being a woman.
For within women lies the future;
The birth of the revolution of equality

tell me how you can shame
the woman who has birthed you
the woman who has raised you

how do you label us lesser
when we are the ones who
carry the future

Tell me why does
the curve of my breast
allow you to name me inferior

why does my soft skin
allow you to bruise it
with your harsh words
of incapability

I am a woman
And in this,
there is no shame.

I am a woman
And I am proud

A body of my own they had said
Be proud of the curves, the dips, the rolls.
Your body is yours and yours alone.
So why is it that I have no say over it?
Why is it that every hole, mark, change
Need to be approved of by you?
My hair to be kept a natural colour,
"It's just easier to manage that way"
My piercings to be kept decent
"Any more will make you look rebellious"
My tattoos to be modest and hidden,
"They're on you forever, think about your future"
My ability to self-express taken away from me.
My body, is not what I want it to be.
I am trapped in a body I have no control over

How do you look into the eyes
of the woman who raised you
and admit you are flawed

How do you tell her
that all her time and effort
her sleepless nights
and early mornings
were all for waste

How do you tell her
that her lectures and praises
were all in vain

How do you look at her
knowing
that you are less
than what she raised you to be.

How do you apologise to her
for ruining her creation?

How do you tell her
"i am not what you deserve as a daughter"

I wish nothing more
than to gain the ability
to make the words appear on paper
the way they do in my head.

They make sense in there
but written down
they make me feel silly and stupid
and disappointed.

i knew from the first time
he came to me, drunk off
his ***, that he would be
the destruction me.

Despite knowing
That they are
Involved,
I find myself
Tangling our legs
Together.

I will leave the door open
so that you may enter at your own pace
Feel free to wander around
And question me
on what you find

All i ask in return
is that you approach
with an open mind
and that you are gentle
For you might not like
what hangs upon these walls
But they have created
my home.

-I hope you find home here too