i want to reach out and touch her hand
her hair is dyed pink but the blonde streaks show
her body is awkward and her skin is burnt at the shoulder
straps where she forgot to put sun block
and i want to reach out and feel her skin

there is a comfort in the familiar
we love what we know
and there is nothing more lovely
than knowing what she is because
it is what i am and i feel like i know
what will bring her joy and what will
bring her pain and there's something
so comforting about knowing that
her history is one of violence and pain but
she is of love and of kindness and
purity is over-rated but her heart is so
pure.

the history of man is ****** but
the history of woman is resilience.

how long i have admired the shape of
her body and it has taught me to love
my own.
i do not want to reduce my sisters to a
body or a touch because they are strong
and wild and honest and kind and there
is depth to them beyond being a kiss on
the lips and a stroll in the park.
i have such respect and longing for the
touch of kindness, one who has seen the war,
fights it now and fights it forever, but
loves you as if you were made of flowers.
she is made of flowers-
and iron and steel-
and blankets and cups of hot chocolate-
and truth and warships.

the touch of a man is pleasurable
but the touch of a woman is fulfilling.

looking at her now, i wonder if it is strange
to love her as a sister- as a warrior- as a leader
and to still love her as a lover- as a muse- as a body
to love a woman is to love a nation.
to love a woman is to love a war.
to love a woman is to love love.
to love a woman is to love yourself.