Yes, I am a woman We're forced to say it like a curse Because the moment we are discovered Evil eyes of all sorts gaze upon us, questioning and curious
Is she beautiful? Is her skin like porcelain? Her hair, is it soft like silk? Do her eyes shine like the stars? And her virtue above all else, is she pure?
Men compare us to treasure as if it's a compliment Saying our eyes are like sapphires and emeralds To them we are silk and gold Nothing more than measurements of their wealth It's as if they think we won't find out it's just another way to measure our worth, As if they think we can't understand that it isn't a compliment, it's a currency
They don't see my warrior gaze My impenetrable skin, thick with valor They look at my hands and see a delicate doll They don't see the way these delicate hands wrap around my bow How my eyes are sharp and steady No, they only see the innocent sparkle
They aren't looking for my capabilities They seek value in my appearance alone They are putting prices on me, Comparing me to the latest trends For what is my courage worth when I have such a beautiful face?
Yes, I am a woman But I am a warrior first See my battle scars, see my victories See my strength and bravery My honor, see it an recognize me
I am the protector of women Not because they can't defend themselves But because they shouldn't have to I am the one who shows the truth Who guides the moonlight into their veins The one who takes away those sparkling lies For before my eyes, no woman will bend to the whims of man
The world is an archery range and Artemis' throat is a target practice.
What is this pale and moon-drenched skin but a carcass to howling wolves — their sorrows grow hand and grab her by the neck.
I always told myself to lie still throughout the attack — it'll be over before you know it, but my lips are wounded from biting down a scream and a carcass still weeps long after it's dead and my lung still bleeds long after it's dry — lie still, my love, because what if the calm trembles in a storm and what if the storm brews in the calm. Lie still, I say but my legs weren't made to be a hunted prey's. Lie still, I say but my hands weren't meant to carry the moon and all the sadness she was ever told.
Lie still. No, it's not only Atlas who breaks. The world still is an archery range.
And tonight, Artemis takes her last arrow; perch her carcass on the grieving moon — a carcass, regardless, to all howling wolves.
What is it like The moonlight on her skin Surely it must dance Some spectral movement A longing that only The forest would know Deep secrets whispered Beneath its bows Ancient recollections of Sweet footfalls amid the duff and Arcane choired reverances Echoing a covens embrace around Samhain fires Charming the spirits arise and Make light the growing darkness But time is cruel and She alone now stands Testament to the cycle ******* in the dew Singing the old songs In the old ways Enticing that old wood wake and Take heed the coming dawn
counting stars like the ticks of seconds on the clock dare i hold her hand a little tighter i do believe her hand holy blessing a sinner like me artemis stares, i blink and if i believed in god i would’ve thought she was standing there in front of me
I feel you with me, I feel your grace, as your sunbeams hit my face. You warm me up with a cup of hot tea and relax with me beneath a bay tree. I see you in every stranger's smile you make my day all the worthwhile. As we watch the sun go down you help me make some flower crowns to give to my dejected sibling who I love despite our quibbling. As I turn my playlist up I feel the heat leave my teacup. 'cause now we have to say goodnight as Artemis comes to take the night.
and yet, what are we but mere mortals somehow caught in the world's anger? what am i but just another girl weaving these words in the corners of a ceiling where the moon doesn't shine — hidden by dust and out of reach and you are a victim, walking straight to spider silk; somewhere in the sky, artemis is perched on the moon — watching, warning.
and for all we know, she knows, that apollo, too had written poems for all his lovers; i will borrow these words, fumbling to write all the things i cannot say. but in the end, how can i write about your love and its softness when all i've known are wolves and shredded baskets, when my legs are made for chasing the fog, when my hands are made for ripping red cloths and poorly folding them into roses? alas, darling, these are my pressed tulips and chaste kisses delicately folded into words. this is my testament; these are my whispers in their softest. these are my fingers in their gentlest. this is my love for you.