i value myself in rib bones
and my beauty in the weight
of feathers
& in the morning i'll feel a little
thinner a little prettier a little more
o
kay
i weigh my strength in calories
{thefewerthebetter}
like the scale of Ma'at
if my stomach is emptier than water
then
ican go to heaven

as Women we are told that our
hunger cannot
exist
               unless it pleases men
that the expanses of our bellies
are shameful.
as if my stomach -- as full as the moon and as flat as the prairie
is not beautiful in its
ripe glory
as if my thighs-- made of thunder clouds
are not magnificent
as if my body-- striped with pink-white scars
is not worthy of worship

as Women we are told
that we should feel guilty for every bit of nourishment
that passes through our lips
but that we should be expected
to nourish the world.

but I say ****
diets
****
starving
and fasting
andbingingandpuringandworshiping
skeletal goddesses
that do not exist
(because even the most beautiful woman isn't lovely enough for a magazine)
and stop "going on a cleanse"
because we all know that cyanne and water and maple syrup tastes like ****
Instead
Praise Your Abundance.
run your hands over
dimpled
               soft
scared
            taught
rough
           smooth
full
       flat
bulging
skin & know
that
You Are Beautiful
&you;; bones do not define you.

i am a woman made
of countless triggers never warned
(i don’t need a ******* trigger warning, I pull them every day)
of unnoticed scars
(i heal too fast and am too clever at hiding them)
and uncounted skipped meals
(because i’m too good at lying and too fat to have a eating disorder)

of empty pill bottles and whiskey bottles and ****** wrappers and inboxes
of unspoken dependence
and too much *****
(because i used to like to drink too much so that i could flirt with death
& if I survived I could feel thinner in the morning)

but all that is changing in the morning

but right now it feels good to feel drunk

and that’s okay

because I’d rather feel drunk and alone under flannel sheets

than ever
              you lot again

i drink whiskey because
after so many
shots
something like a dragon wakes up in my stomach
and crawls out my throat with the exhalation of cigarette smoke
i drink whiskey because the dark brown
mingles with the fire in my veins
and the wild south of my soul is reawakened
a part of my soul that lingers in the bricks of marie laveu's and between alleyways in the french quarter
stirs up like a ghostly collection of downy feathers
and the fear that is carved into my ribcage seeps out
i drink whiskey because the salt of my fingers plays
with the back of my throat
coaxing all this fear out, chased with mason jars of water
i drink whiskey because it makes me feel ugly and fierce
i drink whiskey because it makes it easier for me to burn bridges and sever ties
i drink whiskey because it makes being used by men with pretty faces and holes in their dead chests easier to swallow the next day
i drink whiskey because it makes me rowdy and alive
i drink whiskey because snarling rage needs to be let out sometimes
i drink whiskey because it sobers up my headi drink it because it helps me forget that i didn’t say no
i drink it because it makes me angry about what you did
i drink it because i remember the way your hand pushed mine down and the way your hand curled into a fist in my hair and yanked at the top of my dress
i drink it because i didn’t tell you no

if the curves of my stomach offend
you
i suggest you get the
*******
   of
me
but when this rage comes you speak
so
sof
      t
ly
and wonder why i look at you
like you burned
me but
you don't understand how predecessors of your gender have treated me.
kind words have never been spoken to me
soberly or
without weight behind them
like bartering in a dark corner bed while everyone else sleeps
where i stop being a woman, an entity, and become an unfeeling orifice whose name has suddenly become
                                          baby
because a few kinds words were mumbled against the shell
of my ear
you don't understand
how hands have grabbed me in the dark
and how my own hands have grabbed
only out of desperation
to feel something
you don't understand how hard it is for you to touch me and
for me not to feel lightening hot repulsion
as i lay drunk, ready to sleep.
you don't understand how when people touch my hair
all i can feel are hands curling against my scalp
and the way cold-shaking hands curled around my dress
and the way fear has been etched into the lines of my brain like a map of the city i know so well
like that alley i can't walk down alone at night
or that part of lexington where men shout at me hungrily
or the way stranger's hands sometimes 'slip'
you will never understand the weight of my insecurity because no amount of sweetness you can pour onto me can replace the venom fed to me by the men before you
no matter how 'enough' i may be with you
you will never understand how 'enough' isn't tangible
how beautiful doesn't really feel like a compliment
and how much
i doubt you actually love me

I saw this article
It screamed
Leah Shipman, Ex-Teacher, Marries North Carolina Student She Was Accused Of Having *** With

I read it and now I am furious
I am sick
I am disgusted

She had *** with him when he was 15
She gets married to him Yay for them
But for me

I am prohibited
Not allowed
Restricted from marrying the guy  I want

Good Job Society
Good Job North Carolina
Good Job

Everything you say
Everything you do
Is everything I want
In a guy just like you

But how can you not care
For someone just like me
Yet show me what it is
A real man is supposed to be

You always mention her
The one who is my blood
Her smile, and her laugh
Everything you loved

Yet no one can replace
A girl as perfect as she
At least that's what you always tell me
That no other love could ever be

So please stop showing me affection
And all the things I want
It only hurts me worse
Knowing I am not

The one for you...

I had a scary dream once
But it’s a dream that makes sense now.
In that dream,
The government set up a “program”
Where when you reached the age of 50 you were “terminated”-
In that dream, I was trying to hide my “loved” ones
As the government soldiers came to get them.

Every day after school, I go to Barnes&Nobles; to study
And read up on books I can’t afford to buy. And every day around
4:15 PM, these two old retired couple come in to read
And eat. The same routine every time; the wife points out where
They’re gonna sit (9 times out of 10 it’s the same table as yesterday).
The husband then goes to order their small size drinks and two cookies.
When he comes back, he grabs a stack of magazines and they just flip em’-
Sit there with a dull look on their faces and read for hours.
Amazed, I ask myself silently each time when I see them,
“so this is what life amounts to?”

I now see the government’s point.

B cup
C cup
but D cup, the better.

A nip,
a tuck—
reverse the clock.

For beauty’s the past,
and beauty’s the young.

Thus,
reupholster the fruit of the womb
and iron the sags low.
Recapture the past glow,
for after all,
the future is wherever you don’t exist yet.

Freezing fog
Trees protest
They can’t shiver
It’s a test.
Wait for spring
Hold all breath
Patient trees
Denying death.

Stagnant air
Hanging white
Building daggers
In the night.
Grim to breathe
Grim to touch
Patient are trees
That suffer such.

Winter cracks and
Winter cleaves
No bitter words
Are heard from leaves.
Watch the trees
For they will show
The path of patience
And way to grow.