Daylight seeps through the black and white curtains,
Like fingers tearing through fabric,
Touching his skin.  
Soft,
Dark,
Sound asleep.
His back is turned to face me,
And in the morning light,
I see the stretchmarks I love,
Stretching beyond horizons,
Beyond untouched barriers.
Striae like streams flowing into rivers,
Rivers draining into oceans,
Beckoning explorers to brave the choppy currents.
I trace them with my fingertips,
Sending shivers down his spine,
Electrical jolts down mine.
I close my eyes,
Hold him tight.
Before I know it,
Day has turned into night.
Just like that,
Sunbeam into moonlight.
There is a cacophony,
Of gentle snores,
Groggy moans,
Words mumbled through half-awaken lips,
Words I can’t really make out.
I roll to the edge of the bed,
Prop myself up.
He turns to face me,
Eyes still shut,
And mumbles,
Stay.

The night was young,
And so were we.
Lying across each other,
On slightly stained sheets.

We made plans,
Talked about our dreams.
We waged wars,
Fought about things that didn't even matter,
I  broke the fridge and ran out the door.
But you grabbed me by my knees,
Turned me upside down,
And I burst into laughter,
Thinking to myself,
Will we remember this moment,
Forty years from now,
When we are old and gray?

The night is young,
But we no longer are.
Lying across each other,
But far apart.

We’ve stopped making plans,
Because plans are for dreamers.
We talk about our past,
The people we used to be.
You try to pick me up,
But your knees have become weak,
So you place your hand on my cheek,
And I start to cry.
You say,
Darling,
I remember.
I remember everything.

I’ve never been the right kind of girl,
Too mean because I don’t smile often,
Too fake when I laugh,
Too skinny because I don’t have *****,
Too fat when I can no longer squeeze into my old jeans,
Too quiet because I don’t voice my opinions,
Too loud when I speak my mind,
Too obliging because I follow orders,
Too stubborn when I make a stand.
You see,
We will never be the right kind of girls,
Nor do we have to be.
We are too much of everything,
That we can’t be labeled,
Put into societally standardized boxes.
Like the sun,
We can’t be contained.
Like a flower,
We can bend with the wind and still not snap.
Like a blade of grass,
We can be trampled on,
And still survive.

At dusk,
All our labors are reduced to nothingness,
Ground to dust,
All in vain.
But by dawn,
We shall pick ourselves up,
Our heavy bones and weary souls,
Just to try again.

They print their lives on a price tag,
Those big fat numbers,
All they do is brag.
My daughter’s a neurosurgeon,
Graduated from Johns Hopkins,
Saving lives by the hundreds.
My son a number-crunching accountant,
A career that keeps his wallet thick,
And his pockets filled.

They wonder what I do,
I tell them I work with words.
They gasp,
Eyes widen.

I tell them that,
I can count the spaces between adjacent letters in a word,
String words together to build a sentence,
Layer each sentence above another like bricks,
Place a single powerful mark of punctuation in between,
The glue that holds the bricks intact and forms a wall.
A wall of stanzas,
Connected by commas and semicolons.
A wall of paragraphs,
Big enough to block numbers out.

Because words fill souls while numbers fill pockets.
Words are immeasurable.

Infinite.

I can’t braid hair,
I trip over my own feet when I walk in heels,
I don’t paint my nails,
I have no idea how to do makeup.
But yes,
I am a woman.

Because being a woman is not wearing a tight skirt,
Hem above knees.
Flash a little skin,
Don’t be a *****.
Cover those up,
You ****.
Being a woman is not keeping your mouth shut,
Obedient at his feet,
Looking pretty.
Put pretty on your resume,
Put a smile on that face.

No,
Being a woman is building a home out of closed doors,
Bridging wage gaps with sticks and stones,
Thrown your way,
Finding healing where there was none,
Enduring the pain of a new life emerging from your womb,
Giving and forgiving,
Giving till the jar is empty.

My sisters,
You have so much more to offer,
To share with the world.
So don’t settle for pretty,

Never settle.

Primary-colored neon signs,
In the windows,
Of every smoke-permeated bar.
Open is in red,
Cocktail glass in blue,
Lemon twist,
Gin,
Yellow.

Around the corner,
A French antique store,
With grand chandeliers,
Dangling from,
Every inch of its ceiling,
Emitting a coalesced glow,
Warm,
Mellow.

Every nightclub down the street,
A party of its own.
Strobe lights,
Blinding.
Music,
Deafening.
A drunk teen,
Retching.
Poor,
Fellow.

Fluorescent billboards,
Brood over worn-out men.
City lights,
No matter how bright,
Can never drown out,
Their dark suits,
Dark ties.
Their longing,
To belong.
Their sighs,
A,
Bellow.