Stupid white girl.
We are not allowed to do anything.
We're prim and proper, white girls.
We are not allowed to fight back.
Put us in our place, white girls.
We are not allowed real work.
We still want our twenty three cents back.

The child of fair skin and blue eyes.
But with all my female privilege,
Came a nasty stamp on my body.
Like a watermark.
FEMALE.
I have heard that when a woman looks in the mirror, she sees a woman.
But when a man looks in the mirror, he sees a human.

Even with that watermark, our pale skin is used as a canvas.
And everyone else has been handed the tools to color in our curves.
Covering us in blue and black and purple and red.
Redrawing our minds so they cannot process the discrimination,
Painting over our tears so our feelings can be buried,
Manufacturing open legs when you want them,
Closed when you don't.
Erasing the lips we use to speak out,
Erasing the eyes we use to see all of this.

You think just because you held the brush,
Just because you created this monstrosity of a "masterpiece"
You get to claim ownership of this piece of artwork
That you blatantly disregard
Is my BODY.

The "fe" you tack onto "male"
Does not stand for Free Entry.
The "wo" you tack onto "man"
Does not stand for Wipe Out.

Women are barely able hold a pencil.
I was lucky to hold one long enough to draw myself
A conscience, a backbone, legs to stand on, and a mind.
We were only taught how to use the back end of that pencil
To erase our mouth and keep the secrets.
But these days the secrets are keeping themselves.

I will not be put in a glass case
You will not charge admission
To have people come and analyze me.
Buy me.
Give me value.
Categorize me.
Preserve me the way you created.

You are no artists.
You are vandals.

This warm ache in my chest,
Is it love or
routine stress?
I mask my worries with confidence
To increase my self providence
Yet distracted, I fill
my consciousness with sweet
joy and bliss
that heals my mind for a brief moment
whenever she is around
and suddenly,
my mind and heart are at war
Shall I take the plunge
which my affection pulls me towards?
or abscond into the vast
complication of my obligations?
forever feeding my various ambitions?
Ay!
What a choice to choose!

Dear November,
Please remember that I'm not strong anymore.
In December,
I might not be here to see the world.
So please November,
Please help me along.
Open my eyes and show me all the fun,
Let me make new friends and perhaps a lover.
I want to be here to see the summer,
Winter can be such a ******.
Make me happy and don't snow too much,
For cleaning up is such a fuss.
Be good November.

Till death, my love.
Till death do us part.
Through thick and thin,
bones and blood,
nicotine and temporary highs,
we'll make it through it all,
because we know that none of it
ever really mattered.

Till death do we part,
because it would bring too much pain before,
and we know that together,
we could scale mountains,
while only struggling up inclines,
when apart.

What, my darling,
is a rose without its thorn?
what source of protection does it have?
how long shall it live,
without its immunity?
without its lifeline?
not long, in reality.

Till death do us part,
for without you,
I'm simply a rose,
lacking thorns.