My ****** writes a poem:

.

When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.

She haunts me.

“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]

The outbursts of angry women,
the most beautiful thing to witness.

We fight to be heard —
Another cycle, that will never end..
It is only a wish to watch the fall of men.

They'll call her ruin.
They'll call her shame.

They'll never call her,
by her name.

Once the deed is done.
Her world it shakes.

As all her secrets.
Are laid out bare.

There is no hiding.
This ruined girl.

They'd call her pretty.
They'd call her smart.
They'd call her art.

Till she fell in love
Then fell apart.

The man he ran.
Like most men do.

Escaping the wreckage.
Of his youth.

The ruined girl,
was left alone.

Becoming a cautionary tale.
Of women's woes.

Whispering through history.
"Be careful with whom you love."

Sorry for the smell,

the fact is, I ate onions --


It's my period.

I am going on a journey.
Suddenly, it dawned on me —
what if I die?

Abrupt. Unnoticed.

Is there anything
I could leave behind?
Other than grief,
than sadness,
regret?

I realized — no.
I have none.

So I stood up,
braced myself:

I will not die.
At least,
not today.