We are all masked by the hand of God
This mouth is a cavity of desperation
What's the point in getting ready
If it all comes tumbling down eventually
The blind have never risen
And the deaf have not yet learned to speak
With the music only they can hear
Within each passing heartbeat
We are forever beholden to each other
For there are hundreds of mouths left to feed
But beauty is a deed that can’t be bought
Still I fought for your heart and lost everything

Sometimes I ask myself,
What am I doing?
I wake up unintentionally at 4 in the morning
And I finally feel truly alone
It feels so nice to be alone
But that’s when the appraisal of my life starts
All this feeling of— this doesn’t belong
Remember when I used to have that feeling all the time?
All those years of I don’t belong here?
And yet I stayed in those places that felt confining
Until there was no other choice but to leave
And when that time came
Like a blessing from heaven
Grief was welcomed,
In it’s transitory glory
The slowness, the stillness, the savoring
Of saying goodbye
The opening, the excitement, the jubilation
Of starting over again, of being freed from my bonds

Now I feel it happening again
I’m resisting it, like I always do
But life, she’s kinda funny
Sometimes she takes away my ability to choose and makes them for me
Because she knows I like to sleep in
She says ‘rest for now, but I shall wake you up again soon’
And the soon is coming, I can feel it
Like I can feel the coming of change in season
I love summer, I don’t want it to go
But fall is in the air, there’s no turning back
And winter is well on her way
The anticipation of change is swirling through the air
I’m trying to make plans
But I know life will have her way
She knows better than me
She knows I’m scared but also knows I can take it
All she wants to do is expand me
And for that, I’m grateful.

if my body is a temple,
then you've desecrated it.
touched me with irreverent hands.
said            

'woman'

like it was a heresy
in itself
to breathe
and feel beautiful
in the form I have no control over.

have you forgotten
where you came from?
you have made martyrs
out of saints.
out of your mother,
and her mother,
and her mother,
so far back
that you no longer recognize
a goddess
when you see one.

the womb is a place of worship.
every curve,
every flaw,
every edge
of her body
a hymn waiting to be written.
we have made sacrifices
upon sacrifices
to appease the entitlement,
to cover the shame
they make us feel
when they say

'woman'

at an altar.
at a shrine
men made
to make themselves
idols.

'woman'
she's somebody's daughter.

'woman'
somebody's sister.

'woman'
somebody's mother.

'woman'
somebody's lover.

'woman'
somebody's friend.

but first,
she was somebody.