I’ve been conditioned
like freshly washed hair
for years
do not offend
unless the end of the sentence is “im sorry”
let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you
like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity
kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity
because i couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords
were anything but rosy
ring around the Josie, pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your ****
when walking down a thorough-fair
busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters
thank you
muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche
why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry
that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me
in the form of fists and slurs and honestly
im tired
of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps
i am the sky and the trees and the moon
but i do not speak with the wisdom of travelling seeds
i speak with the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk
like soft silk i wish i could tatter
i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments”
but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me
than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism
whatever the word is this week
i will not be another number
ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters
every second is another unspeakable act
i see women
with tongues as round and large as planets
and tonsils the size of solar systems
birthing new galaxies in the words they speak
and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks
when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled
into his monthly issue of mens rights magazine
she tore down the even minuscule belief he could have had that he had the right to comment on her body
in three seconds his pride, and entitlement
shifted into shame
and embarrassment
and i envy these women
because the only time i can take back my power
is when i am standing in front of a room
speaking rhymes and metaphors preaching independence and strength
to a group of people who now think i am a hero
i am not a hero
i put my shoes on one foot at a time
and i still manage to forget a couple days of birth control here and there
and i cant stand up for myself
in the moments after an attack i retreat into my latte and pray today will not be the day the male dominated society takes my power away
because i am small
and though i am growing every day
i still can only pray
that one way or another
i will be able to be as strong a woman as my sisters
my mother
and take back my power
and speak not with the beauty of a flower
but with the sharpness of a bumblebees sting
and one more thing
your compliments
are not complimentary

i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
because
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
because
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
because
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
because
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
because
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
because
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
because
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
because
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.

i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
until
my body is my body.
until
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
until
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
until
woman means human.
until
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.

Today's the first time I've allowed your image to play across my field of vision in a while.
I let myself remember the smile that made me come alive and I'm rotting.
I was always taught not to trust the things that were unknown but the only words I ever believed were those you spoke to me in a language I never knew existed.
I studied you like I did for all my tests in high school. I memorized what I thought was important. I looked at the main points on the outside;
I never connected the dots.
I didn't analyze the deeper meaning of those bolded words in your textbook.
I wonder why I was so shocked when I failed the test.
I've taken plenty of these tests before. Just about all of them are the same.
You were just one of those teachers that knew how to make me feel like I would pass.
That deep, red ink you used to grade my paper matched the fire in your eyes when you handed it back to me, as well as the blood spilled now across my skin, yet again.
That half-smile written across your face
I'm looking at it from in the grave
So it looks more like a frown, to me.

I walk through these hallways.
So silent. Just trying to get to class.
I move at a quick pace because I can't stand
To see everyone look away as I pass.
I sit down alone in the back of the room.
I pay attention to the teacher,
But sometimes I zone out.
Sometimes I think about boys, or hair,
Or all of the people who refuse to care.
The sub gives us busy work, so I look around the room.
I see everyone chatting and having
Their pointless teenage conversations.
I do my work silently until the bell rings. It's too easy.
I move from class to class,
Just hoping the time will pass
A little faster than it usually does.
Nothing really matters anymore, really.
My friends don't talk to me.
My ex boyfriend just looks at me funny.
I obsess over my weight; my hair; my skin.
I am not used to this. I am not used to changing all the time.
I used to be outgoing; magnificent; popular; funny.
Now I'm just awkward; quiet; alone; unhappy.
High school makes me miserable,
but at least I have good grades.

The private gun salesman
divine savior of our life,
liberty, and pursuit of happiness!
Washes his own hands
of the matter,
he has no need for Mary Magdalene,
divine *******, hippie.
Arms outstretched
he sacrifices his own collection
(for a sum of course)
for the anonymous benefit
of a person who
"seems alright".
They aren't Mexican or Black after all!
Or God forbid, Indian!
What would we do
without that Just defender?
Our private gun salesman,
divine savior of America.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

There’s a certain disharmony in the way of things,
and how it turns humans into monsters. I saw a monster turn a girl
into a woman with her clothes on the floor,

and he carved ‘liar’ on her chapped lips. I reached out when
she stood before me, holding a razor in one hand and whiskey
in the other. She had dashed lines on her wrists

and shattered glass at her feet. I feel like screaming, but my gums bleed
from a mouth full of broken metal wire.
I cannot tell you the story that sits on my shoulders like a child,
too young to understand the weight of himself.

Now my eyelids have been peeled from my face and
I cannot look away from the girl when she comes home after school
and asks me for help with her homework
because the least I can do is solve a few math problems.