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.

17/11/13

Folks speak of the lost boys once a midnight orchid blooms.
Of where they play and hide by a moonlit bay and sandy coast.
Without a care or a house, finding shelter under wise trees holding hands as a shack.
They ease the strong winds of November with rusted strings,
plucking notes with muddy fingers, they hum the usual song pulling splinters off their minds.

And there is rain that drowns the dancing melancholy in their little hearts,
as rippling ocean waves imitate their breaking bones and pulse.
As the thunder beats of laughter and of sorrow,
wooden guitars tap out the tearing droplets that spill from their sleepy thoughts.

For me, love has always been like sleepwalking. I never remember how I get there but there are always footprints behind me in the snow that appear to be the same size as my own. Somehow I ended up there again, with my face turned upward and the wind kissing it. Whoever compared love to warmth was lying. It is cold. It is the inch between solid ground and frozen lake that you can't see. It is the fog that clings to the tops of trees and softly whispers your name. It is the frost on your window that reminds you how easily things can break. The worst part of falling in love is falling out of love. The worst part of sleepwalking is waking up.
You woke up.

"There are no words to describe how beautiful she is,
or how special she is, or my love for her.
To put these things into words would be to define them,
To quantify them, which means to limit them.
There would be a beginning and an end.
There is no definition fitting, nor any limit,
nor beginning or end to her beauty,
or to how special she is, or my love for her.
my love for her."

you wrote me
78 letters in the months of
october and november;
i didnt realize just how
powerful
your hand could become
when it was faced with
unimaginable distance
and a lack of
touches like strawberries and bananas

you wrote me
a single letter
in the month of december;
i didnt realize just how
lost
you could become
when you were faced with
a cold right side
of a queen sized bed
and a mind
that said you werent enough
without me by your side

you wrote me
a single note
in the month of april;
i didnt realize just how
impactful
i could become
when i was faced with
the decision to either
write you back
or toss the letters,
the latter of which i did without consideration

you wrote me
no letters
after those months;
i didnt realize just how
enjoyable
those letters could become
until after you
took up your wrists
and slit them end to end
so you could no longer be tempted
to write to a girl who seemed to no longer care for you

Do you know the feeling of
Looking at a person and you just feel disappointment?
You want to deny
But all you could feel is saying
"How could you?"
All you do is choke on every word you want to let go
Because you want to say the right words
But you just can't feel disappointed in them.
You want to believe they did not did it
But you can't.
Because you trusted them so much.

You want to cry
And scream at them
You want to ask them why did they did it
But you still want to keep the thoughts of them being perfect.

I feel it everyday
Watching the people I love
And care
But they just turn a blind eye
Because they think what they did was right.