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AndresAjala Mar 11
I am washing the sheets,
from so much overflowing love,
from so much sweat,
from passion found.

I wash the sheets,
of a beautiful early adventure,
full of communication,
sincere affection,
and flames.

Your smile and your gaze
lit up my mornings.

I wash the sheets,
because today we must say goodbye,
because the universe brought us together,
but the voice of society tears us apart.

Where a woman's feelings
are accepted,
but a man's are a sentence.

A sweet reflection,
that a dark part
holds onto us.

Where a woman can cry in broad daylight,
while a man destroys himself.

Abuse of repression,
for emotions left unvalidated.

I am not something strong,
I am not fortitude,
I am a human consciousness.

Society, I do not seek your approval,
but for my soul to be heard.

I did not need to fit into a mold
for my manhood to be accepted.

And let values be more expensive
than success.

I wash the sheets,
for my past wounds.

Sheets of a farewell,
for my expectations created.

Sheets of oblivion,
because even though there was fire,
our stories did not intertwine.

Sheets of hope,
that I will sweat,
because someone better awaits us tomorrow.
Meg B Mar 2015
White.
Female.
Middle Class.
Heterosexual.
Agnostic.
Libertarian.

Yeah.
That's me.
That's that first layer,
thin as the paper you could
read it on.
Just a
Jane Doe,
a nameless, faceless
demographic.

But peeling back the layers,
ripping through page on page of a complicated novel,
digging
down
into
a
bottomless
hole
to
China,
unravelling
­the intricate
web of
stereotypestruthsliesassumptionsprejudice
and
there you will find
me,
a colorless genderless asexual
spirit whose frame
is crafted and molded
not with how the world
chooses to see me and
who "they" deem me to be;

no.

A guy that didn't know me well
once told me that I
spoke more urban than he
expected,
and I couldn't help but wonder why
someone from an urban area
couldn't speak like they were
from a city,
like somehow what he saw in my
whitefemaleheterosexualmiddleclassagnosticlibertarian
prolog­ue forbade me
from speaking in colloquials and
abbreviations.
Oh, I apologize,
I laughed later to my friend,
law students are supposed to speak
with an ostentatious vocabulary and
an heir of
(superfluous) arrogance.


I am rarely a prototype
of what it means to be
White,
of what it means to be
female;
middle-class* or not,
my parents insisted at age 8
that I begin to understand
the value of a dollar;
my sexuality indicates little
about my level of attraction
to the world around me;
agnostic is really just a term
I put because I'm still trying to
figure out whether I really
believe everything I was forced to
learn at Catholic school;
and isn't Libertarian just a fancy
word for I don't want to
choose liberal or conservative?

It's insulting to
ingest how much is
insinuated about
my depth in
the shallowest of pools.
My cheeks burn hot
with frustration as I
try to balance on a beam
cracking underneath the weight of
a world that is constantly begging me
to go back in the neatly
wrapped package from which
the world would prefer I
came.

I'm not someone
you can put in a *******
box and
label;
you can't contain my
shine behind
blackout blinds;
I will burst out of your bubble
and break your glass ceilings;
I will scream at the top of
my lungs in a soundproof room
until you HEAR me.

I'm not meant to be judged
by my cover,
and neither are you.

We are meant to be read.

— The End —