The waitress sends signals in neon code,
through Christmas illuminations stretching across
the car-park, and straight into my ***** orange.

She laughs through awkward platitudes,
and all the beards that comment on her skirt.
She's working to make a living,
somewhere down the line.

I watch as she scribbles poetry on old receipts,
eyes glossing over the ketchup stains,
and into the passing of the moment.

I hope that she is writing of escape;
of better times and better sleep.
She will smash the glass ceiling,
and save us from the greenhouse effect.

Baritone singers lure her into art,
into the promise of soft-hearted men
with a resilient chest.

The waitress waits for a signal
to restart her life. There will be flares
on the horizon, there will be new lovers
leaning on their cars in the sun.

She will finally get to sit.
She will thank the waiter for her drink.

She draws black wings to her eyes
in a green-wash reflection, light
cascading through the shutters
of the ceiling fan, whilst red lips
rehearse a smile for her lover.

He will hold her like a wallet as
they pay their way through town.
It has been months since she felt
human touch, mammalian warmth,
or whispers exchanged across the pillow.

His eyes are on the screen as she
undresses and then falls beneath
his weight on the mattress. An empty
thud, a hollow sound, as his night is
given purpose, and then falls to sleep again.

She lies awake and wonders where
her night went. There was laughter
across the table, drinks stirred with straws,
and UFOs painting pictures in the sky.
The sea roared in the distance like

a passing train, and so there must be
an escape to a far-off land for her
to start again. Start again beyond
waistlines, over coastlines, and all ties
to employment. To start again

with a half-naked lover, who will
watch as the wind kicks up her hair;
as her skin freckles once more
in the sun.

There are bare-breasted women
lounging in the unmade bed
of my mind.
They teach me chords on the piano,
and how to stay grateful
in the face of time;
how it lingers between seconds,
but years go by unannounced.

We don't make love. We ****,
taking back each wasted Sunday
spent talking to G-d,
or waiting for political truth.
They run their fingers over my back,
send me to a sleep
of dried sweat and loving violence.
They send me sunflower seeds and ****

in the post,
so I can bloom by the open window
and feel warmth through winter.
There are powerful women
laying down the law by the clock tower.
They stand up for Syria
and challenge the authority
I had conjured in my mind.

You fenced off your eyes
with a charcoal black,
then stranded in snow
and an endless depression,
you painted your death-mask
in venetian ceruse,
hoping that it would be enough
to appease your critics;
to keep away from the sun,
to slip through the seams of time,
and to a place where
the evenings do not seem so long.

You gave your sanity
to a useless drug
and kept your identity
to the picture
within his wallet.
I hope you know your bravery is noticed.
I hope that for once
you can find peace
amongst this constant state of war.

He asked me how I liked it today--
from the back or front?
He wanted to know why--
too small or didn't last?
He said he knew, so I shouldn't lie to him--
as if I was less than him.
What's a ****** to do
when the rumors peg her as a ****?
She can't ignore the whispers,
or the blatant accusations:
Now we all know how ***** she really is.
It's been twenty-four hours,
and already the **** is coming
with dogs, chained, in their heels,
makeup streaked and lipstick smudged.
He releases the *******.
But they don't wait for the cover of night to bite,
no, they lunge at noon in the crowded hallways
teeth of words, power of the sideways glance,
venom of whispers, bullets of pointed fingers
He needs a new name for the list,
his quota is short--
because when a girl becomes single,
she is an updated item on the auction:

Name: Lilith
experience: 1 guy(s)
skills:
     hands: 4/10
     tongue: 6/10
     on top: 3/10
     bottom: 7/10
volume: loud

Her reputation is spoiled--
the way her friends talk to her,
the invites she gets to hang out,
the fact that no one wants to talk to a ****.
Welcome, little ******,
to the Virtue Laments.

A sea of nettles and nails that scream their injustice at you
People who seem like they've shaken off their prickly outsides and their hatred
Turning to congratulate them
Embrace them
Before you find the truth beneath their pillowy covering
Nails can be blunted and nettles can be softened but they remain below your surface,
Waiting for the right moment to be sharpened and grow back their stings

I see your injustice and I raise you my peace
It hurts to tear out your nails and to burn off those nettles
But oh god does it hurt more to walk your tender, soft body through that forest of pain

She was an ordinary girl.
Plaits beside a waistline she drew on with ribbon,
Fastening her thoughts she'd sworn to keep hidden.

Behind closed doors she would loosen the noose
Man ******* before her,
And bind up her lover
The milkman's daughter.

I'm doused in pink
And people think
That I'm weak
If my palette was bleak
Would you think me strong?
You'd think wrong
I'm made of steel
And quick to heal
I may be covered in bows
But heaven knows
This princess is tough
My edges might not be rough
I may look like a fragile flower
But I hold so much power
My femininity doesn't make me
Some weak little daisy
Beautiful yet tough, like diamonds & pearls
Just like the girls with ribbons and curls

The world tells their young
That abstinence is old fashion, that innocence is over and done.
That to make something of themselves
They must give this much
to someone else
That *** paves the road to success.
What standards should I view best?
Am I a woman now?
Look at me.
trying to understand my insecurity
Wallowing in pathetic purity
They tell me I'll never find love for more than a day
If I can't even let him get to second base.
That I should give my innocence to him,
I should join him in a ****** rhythm.
That I should have fun and forget what the bible has to say,
To find temporary bliss for a night and misery the following day.
Maybe I should fall into the mainstream,
Because popularity should fix my self esteem..
Am I a woman now?
I've tried so hard to lock myself away,
To keep myself pure in the light of day,
But night comes around and leads my thoughts astray,
Maybe *** is just a game we play.
Perhaps I'll test the waters but on the ground my feet with stay
I'll try things out but not go "all the way"
Am I a woman now?
God, I need you here right now.
I went too far and broke every single vow
Of innocence that I pledged to you.
And asking for forgiveness is all I know to do.
Am I a woman now?
Being broken by the worlds expectation,
Being deceived in my contemplation.
Don't ever lose yourself,
Not to birth control or the ****** on the shelf.
Not to boys or to loneliness in the middle of the week,
Be strong, be as much of yourself that you can possibly bear to be.
Because the negativity and hatred of the earth,
Will try to **** your spirit and tell you what your worth.
We're no better than the world and *** is a natural inclination,
But if we are the body of Christ we have a God-given obligation
I'm scared, have I done what I'm supposed to do?
Did I do what's right according to God or you?
Am I a woman now?
That's all I wanted, to be beautiful or gorgeous in someone else's eyes,
But I think I've only accomplished that by the words that humans make into deadly lies.
They looked so appealing and delicious,
But I'd advise you to avoid something so malicious,
Because there's remorse and expensive emotional debt,
When we conform to the world and allow ourselves to forget,
That God made *** a spiritual experience to share as a couple,
Only with each other,
It's a passionate emotion that should be known solely by a significant other,
The two bound by marriage, in spirit, and with rings
So that the world can see  they
Can show the world what each spirit brings
To a relationship in Christ alone
In whom my unwavering worth is known.
Am I a woman now?
--Emily Rutledge

**** is not a bad word.
****** is no longer a burden.
Refuse to be ashamed of your anatomy.
We are beautiful and powerful womym.
The source of our power,
Is our *****.
That which we've been told to hide,
To protect,
Never to speak of.
That which we grow from,
And develop.
Where we bear children,
And shed our wombs by the moon.
That which we are made to fear;
To worry about;
To shave or not?
Does it smell?
Is it weird?
Does it look right?
From our beginning,
Our ***** are mysterious.
It is we who must reclaim them.
Gain control over them,
Learn to love,
Rather than shy away from.
****
****
Our ***** will be our saviours.

Paint dried a guilty tattoo on his skin
Your gallery he stood in
Worthless, in every sense
You stayed strong benind a glass fence
He took you up to hang on the wall
But every breathtaking picture has a flaw
But even when he poured your ripped canvas soul into a trash can
A piece of art's beauty is not determined by the nonunderstanding of a man