I read about her somewhere.  
                 ...
   About a lady in a white bralette.

Always bloomed alongside the flowers, with a scent, that made you look at her like she’s one of them. She came into a life with the waves. Crashed into you like the ocean onto the shore. Her touch was feverish and her steps were light.

Like the falling leaves she tiptoed around you, danced with the flames and got you lost in her madness. The kind of madness, that makes you walk through the forest in the middle of the night. The kind of madness, that erases all gravity and lifts you high up in the sky. The kind of madness, that makes you drop sanity out of the palm of your hands.

But her unexpected visit was just it. A visit. As soon as the wind blew she disappeared. And she was gone. Gone with the wind. The gravity reappeared and your feet we’re back on the ground. The sudden twist of events was often too much for most to handle. I live, but many have fallen deeper in the madness that existed only with her existence.

Their souls will forever be heated, but their eyes will never see again.

If I loved her?

a twenty-six year old woman sits alone outside a coffee shop, waiting
she plays Snake on an old Nokia that was discontinued long ago
her red dread locks are tucked neatly under a worn beanie
that she stole from the boy that she gave her virginity away to
in a skate park when she was nineteen

a twenty-six year old woman sits alone at her desk, writing
she has a one night stand whose name she doesn't remember sleeping in her bed
her mascara is running and her lips are dyed black from henna
that she stole from the girl who offered her shelter when she ran away to live
in her car and dingy motel rooms after college

a twenty-six year old woman sits outside a Stop and Shop, drinking Shasta
she recently tried to publish her book of poems , but it was rejected so:
her shorts barely covered her backside and she wore the bralette
that she stole from her brother's girlfriend while she was visiting
in the false hopes that he would register how badly she needed him (or anyone)

a twenty-six year old woman sits in a little blue rowboat, drilling holes into the bottom
she skims Red Kayak before she leaves home and ties rocks around her ankles
her thoughts are set on mentally regressing the pain of her teenage years
that she wishes she could steal back to at least put some emotion back
into her heart

it'd been better than feeling nothing at all

A man I am meant to love told me the amount of skin I show represents my right to consent.
Flesh = Yes
Clothes = No
"Deserving" is a word he used.
A grandfather told his grandchild she deserved to be abused based off the length of her skirt, but this is old news; same story.
Only, I've heard it one time too many and now I'm sick of it.
"Devastated" over my hypothetical ****, he'd said,
as though his feelings mattered more than my right to my body.
Well, **** him.
I'm tired of prioritising people whose opinions are so archaic they can't see the crime in their words.
And his words hurt.
He defended the 'nature of men', claiming its an inbreed instinct,
tried to explain the appeal of women as though I don't already know.  
Jokes on him.
I'm gay.
But I've never been under the illusion it's okay to objectify or intimidate your way into a person's life.
I've never felt entitled to a person I've liked
And there lies the generational divide
Because neither has my brother.
Being "unable to control certain urges" is just another lie they feed you to perpetuate a culture of ****.
I'm seventeen, and yet I know the fear a predatory gaze can cause,
I've been leered at to the extent I honestly thought this is it.
This is the moment I've been warned about.
And then I thought "It's my own fault.
It's dark, it's after nine, I went out running in only a sports bra,
of cause I'm going to find trouble"
because I forgot that I'm not an object.
I'd been fed the same message so frequently it was ingrained into my fight or flight response.
Doesn't that speak for itself?
I'd been conditioned to accept the blame before the finger was even pointed.
So when my grandfather looked me in eye and said he thought girls where asking for it by the way they dressed,
I didn't have the energy to suppress my response.
I asked him if I'd been out drinking with friends wearing a sheer dress and matching bralette, and I was *****, would he consider it my fault.
His answer was met with stunned laughter.
Yes, he'd consider me to blame, and indicated his disappointment should weigh on my conscious.
I am shamed I have the same genetics as such a man.
At least I've learned to drown out his words so they can no longer effect me.

The shower is her therapist -spilling tears all over her body, the way her heart aches to, but her eyes lack to in capacity. She combs her dark hair while she hums an old My Chemical Romance song,

When you go, don't ever think I'll make you try to stay

Gusts of wind come in through the window to remind the foggy glass that it will soon dissipate -that there is a world beyond the dewy structure. She massages the shampoo in her hair with enough strength to try to cleanse away the dirt, and thoughts.

in the morning I'll be off to find another way

She steps out of the shower and wipes off the fog of the double mirror above the sink and stares for a moment and proceeds to grab her tooth brush. Simply brushing her teeth.

The hurt isn't enough anymore to think of it as a metaphor, or anything other than what it is -it's not erasing the taste of him out of her mouth, it's not cleansing away the remains of broken innocence she gave him. That's all over now -he doesn't own that part of her anymore.

a good for nothing, I don't know.

Her face she washes with "Let The Good Times Roll," a face-wash that supposedly smells like caramelized popcorn -she hates popcorn, but she loves the smell of the Lush product; of course, she refuses that it smells anywhere similar to the corn-popped snack.

She throws on a maroon lace bralette and matching skivvies, and slips into an oversized Hanes white t-shirt that she probably purchased at the supermarket as a pack of five, and basks in the feeling of purity and freedom. She looks into the old-fashioned mirror that sits upon her dresser and puts on her retail store bought diamond earrings and $7 Walmart tree necklace and tries to give herself a smile. She's always been one with nature but like an autumn leaf, she drifted wherever the wind, or rather, he would take her. But he's gone now, and the necklace reminds her that she was always rooted -she just expanded her branches a little too far.

I don't love you like I did yesterday.

She takes a seat at her laptop that she worked hard to earn every penny for, and decides she's going to write about this girl she knows, this girl she is falling in love with again. Because even if nobody else does, she see's the beauty in herself -and she deserves to be written down.

And thats the origin of this poem.
NJ2016 [All Rights Reserved]

I bought a mannequin for $65
it was used, just like you.
it has a stain on its chest
where our matching birthmarks lie
two skin toned islands, both yours.
I carried it home on a rainy evening,
like that wine buzzed night we shared,
baked it your favorite cake,
chocolate, dulce de leche, strawberry.
it was vegan, just for you.
I dressed it up in the clothes you left:
yoga pants, leopard print bralette, black scarf.
your parting gifts.
I'm sure it's cold,
I'll put the space heater on high,
like I always did for you.
it doesn't talk much, it just sits
eyes vacant, without breath,
empty.
like you were at the end.
a fine replacement.
it was used,
just like you.

why is it that womanhood is so vile? people bash our bodies opening us up like watermelons to see how sweet we are inside. squeezing our dreams and hopes like oranges into a glass cup. i think you are threatened of our bodies sweetness. threatened of our anger. get used to it. we are every fruit you wish you could pick from the tree. when our trees shed leaves you run because god for bid my ovaries drop an egg  and my legs split like a canyon with a sanguine river flowing for a week. you get down on your knees begging for our bodies s so long that when you stand your ankles crack like the noise i make on my way up the stairs from the night shift. i let my spine arch on the bed creating an invisible hill that you will try to climb. we are becoming stronger by learning not to brush off the  cruel cat calls you make when we walk by but instead we lift our middle fingers and tell you to woman up. tell you to grow some ******* ovaries because let's face it your ***** will never mount our courage. no it's not that i don't think you are strong but i know you need to change the way you speak to women. stop calling us a ***** just because we won't send you nudes. not even the pics we found on google of the old wrinkly breast. stop shaming me with my body parts. stop saying that's gay why the **** is something weird gay. do you remember when i said you are threatened of our anger no baby this is rage this is something i don't like to wear its like a heavy winter coat that clings to my sweaty carmel skin during florida winters.  but don't be threatened of our sweetness we are honeycombs. our kisses are golden yellow and thick. we love the feeling of our honey dripping on your lips.  we want  you to covet our thoughts not our thighs. take in our cellulite like oxygen but not until you learn to march with us and fight for our basic human rights and show pride for us when we wear our flowly skirts and tight jeans because don't you dare say my lacy bralette was asking for it. if you understand now hit pause now and take a stroll over to the orange groves and peel back our thick layers of glory and now now baby you can taste our royalty

"Wearing a bralette ?
Too **** for your age "
"Over sized clothes ?
You look like a man "
"This makeup ? This look ?
What are you even trying to prove ?"
"I want a girl with a big *, thick thighs but skinny waist,
well ! nevermind !
But tell me n,
what's your bra size ?"
"Ethnic wear all the time ?
You're acting too old and your fashion sense is zero "
No matter what we wear,
or how we carry ourselves,
some people will always be bothered.

But it's shocking how you allow them to make you feel insecure and bad about yourself.
You don't like what you see in the mirror ?
Because you feel disgusted in your own skin,
and it hurts to see those picture perfect beauties.
But inner beauty do matter, right ?
I don't understand,
why do you starve yourself or just overeat,
just because you don't like what you see.
"I'm too skinny ",
"I'm too fat",
"I hate my body and I wish I looked like her ",
are the only thoughts in these girls head.

I know it's hard to believe that your body is just perfect and,
you don't need to change a thing.
Ii wish I could give you my pair of eyes so you can learn to appreciate,
the beauty that I see.
Don't let anyone effect your moods,
just wear whatever you want.
Because it's your body,
so you get to choose.
Th way you wanna carry yourself,
is all upto you.
Nothing looks inappropriate or ugly,
if you style in the way you like.
People will still comment against you,
but just say this to yourself at that moment,
"* this society because I'm more than what they get to see ",
and move forward because you're pretty.