I never considered
my self,
a woman.

Growing up, I envied my mother's C's
longingly, explained as

"One night, when you're asleep, the boob fairy will come, and poof..."

I never believed in the tooth fairy, but I believed in the boob fairy.

I asked my mom when approximately this fairy would arrive, but she never gave me a straight answer.

So I guestimated thirteen.
I mean - hello - "teen."  
All the teens on TV had boobs, so why not me?

My birthday was always a week before school started so I figured my boobs would arrive just in time to fill out my new Hollister V-neck Fitted Tees. I had bought them in advance to prepare for boob day. The night before anxiously awaiting my perky presents, custom-made.

But that bitch flaked.

Maybe thirteen wasn't the right age.
I wondered...
until all my friends returned from summer  with new growth,  propped on display. Their hugs, gentle arm touches, as if to protect the hump of womenhood between us.

Me, resigned at lunch,
with nothing to hang over the table
or throw popcorn into.
Still fitting my 6th grade bras
from Limited Too,
the white one ones
with the skinny straps and
no padding,
for those on sea level,
but dreaming of altitude.

Every school year
I hoped anew,
and was disappointed
that nothing grew.

Sweet sixteen
with no signs of womenhood,
my sister crouched on the floor
between my legs to investigate,
a large, bulletshaped cotton ball
in her right hand.

If I wasn't a women,
how could I be bleeding?
Did I just get the worst hand
of reproductive organs
known to man?
A bloody mystery and
nothing resembling
(what I thought)
was a woman's body.

After twenty minutes of
standing pantsless,
we deemed me orifice-less.
I needed a band-aid.
The blood was clearly the source
of a small cut near my groin area.


I don't miss that little girl,
letting her imagination run wild,
terrified, not knowing
how to identify
while everyone was identifying.
Seeing everyone else
and then herself.

Finding herself in
every Burton
and del Toro movie,
an outsider,
an enigma in between.

Finding herself,
littlewhere else,
but the fantasy
of who she was and
who she was supposed to be.

Because no one ever explained woman to her
beyond myths and make believe.

she never considered her self,
a women,
until experiencing
her trama and tragedy,
her strength,
her grace,
her loyalty,
with and without
those coveted fleshy things.

Men who ruin my night:

All I want is to be free
without having to coordinate
an army of women as posse.

But invitably, you will approach
and interrupt any attempt
at a private one woman show.
I will play nice,
an actress to backhand
compliments about her casual appearance
or whatever the fuck
you strike up and serve my way.

I will anxiously look
for strangers to talk loudly with,
avoid your gaze, your funnel,
your "friendly" back pats.
Just because we have a mutual friend
doesn't mean your relevant.
But you don't know that.
You don't know me.
The girl inside, just a social
butterfly flying away from
your outstretched hands
into the night, into her lonely bed,
no dreams of hopeless men.
Excusing herself with period cramps.
No one can fault a girl for hiding
with such pain. It's the ultimate way
to get stupid to turn away.
And nature's way of telling her,
let's not fight those men tryna
cramp your style.
Just stay inside.
Sorry girl, another time.

I notice the difference
moment to
less, and my
purpose seems to change as
quickly as the palms
blow above me -
this strange wind.

Shouldn't I write it?
Or is it decided?
Or is it too sacred,
never good enough,
and self-deprecating
like my thoughts.
A comedy hiding
the tragedy I feel;
I feel too much.

Like the times I just
felt tired and tied,
alone, listening to Coldplay,
and crying, yearning
to remember shades of
yesterday with the same
bright sun.

In the past,
I have yearned for
profound knowledge,
to understand
intense sensation,
general contentedness,
direction and beautiful places,
meekness and worn out spaces.

But I'm tired of contemplating,
the grass green, blue air, slight breeze.
I'm just hacking
incongruent chunks
of increasing size,
left with divets,
and a dull knife.

Draw me into a poem and paint in all the dents the world has left within me.
Feeling your hands on my skin, caressing the inside of my thighs, moving up
Has me questioning how the roughness of the world hasn't corrupted such soft hands
Your eyes linger on my chest, and it feels like your gaze burns through me, seeing a glimpse of all the ache I feel
You run your hands through my hair, and your expression becomes much softer, as if holding a precious gem and being so afraid of scratching or dropping it  
You whisper in my ear how you want to protect me at all cost and how the world does not deserve me
How I'm so pure and unscathed by life's many hardships
You promise to wrap your arms around me every night,
When we're lying on our crisp, white bed sheets
Reminding me how much the world is lucky to have an angel walk among them
Yet, I can't help but feel like I put up a front of being something I'm not.
I am nothing
My heart is stained black.
My thoughts are usually clouded
If i could describe them as a season, it would be fall,
Because they're always causing me to breakdown Into pieces
I am soiled with pure hate.
The rage fills me and all the love dissolves
If the world hasn't worked you into roughness, maybe my soul will
I think it would be better for you to leave.
But maybe you see the potential of what I can become,
Gentle, soft
Something so much more, than I already am
My eyes follow yours and we lose ourselves in the moment, putting aside all of our do's and don't's,
Forgetting that love never plays fair,
And soon, one of us is bound to get hurt.

Felt like I should write something worth imagining but then it sounded like everything else I've ever written so ?!?

just the bumps
and the grind
no outlet anywhere,
just outlets everywhere.
turning everyone off,
please let me just focus
on the brightness in the dark.

Its lonely here,
and stifling sometimes.
speaking in brief
my voice grows stronger.
no release of inarticulate
thoughts in small talk -
just dealing with them.

Waking up with
no aftertaste of moving
at someone else's pace.
barely noticed how I
was trained til
re-lax and just be me,
that extraordinary feeling
of being me,
in that place where
there is no try,
Just climbing,
just a smile
at sentiments
similiar to mine.

And my,

We're all just dropping in
and saying goodbye.
wondering what each other's
private life is like.

This is mine.

the arpeggio of strings,
a distant voice sings,
for pleasantly contained spaces,
in far away places.
somewhere sweet
and safe, with
sorrows embraced,
far in the distance,
neath moonlit plains,
white stars,
wave crashing and
undeveloped terrain.
the cool cast of a fire-y past,
riper, wiser, and
unaffected by change.
looking black,
at looking back.

But back's where I am, and it's all that I have.

I can’t seem to get this thing started
But I know I can find my way home
I can take you to where the ice melts
We can follow it until it turns to foam

How long does it take to gain your confidence
I need the key but the puzzle is in your mind
All these complications for such simple things
Like your cheek rubbing your tears on mine

You're like a home without a door
Nobody knows where to begin
The curtains are shut
And the lights are dim

I know you’re still thinking about him
I would come calling but he got to you
He’s moved on but you can’t come clean
I don’t care about your past but you still do

The path is covered with red leaves
The way you were once loved has fallen
Stop looking at trees that will never live again

I think about the past but you’re not in it
Tomorrow is the only place I can find love
I can’t begin to build a bridge all in one day
But when you cross you’ll know what it’s made of

You're like a light without a switch
Nobody knows how to turn you on
The shadows live a long life now
And your smile runs away from dawn

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