You know the first few questions one asks, when they meet someone new:
What do you do? Where are you from? Where do you live?
Then they eye your clothes, how do you dress up.
They give a verdict based on what they hear, what they see.
That's who you are.

I don't have an answer for these anymore.
I gave up on my previous identities.
Left my job 2 weeks ago.
A job that gave me a certain identity for 8 years; a brand name, a comfort zone.
Left my clothes behind, donated or gave some to friends.
Clothes that defined me; my hippie skirts, my tweed professor jacket.
And finally, leaving the country I lived for 8 years.
In just 2 days.

Who am I now?
I am ME.
More than ever.

you ask for a definition
but does anything have a definition?
the universe
for example
is always changing
definitions don't account for change
therefore
the universe is undefinable
there is no definition for me
because of that same reason
i am always changing
and definitions do not account for change
i am undefinable
seven billion people in the world
and no definitions
capable of describing them
and their change
we are, all of us
undefinable
i am the gay girl,
the depressed kid
the photographer
but that will change
(maybe not the gay part)
everything else, though-
i will be in a better place
eventually
i don't know where that place is
or how people will try to define me
but truly
i am as vast
and as beautiful
and as undefinable
as the universe
and everything in it
we are undefinable.

Guilt:
The powerful emotion that encourages us to rethink everything. We’re never sure who it belongs to, because sometimes everyone harbors it inside, and other times, no one does.
Acceptance:
Ambiguous, in the aspect that sometimes we convince ourselves we’re accepted something when we really haven’t— and that instance actually aids the acceptance process.
Love:
Melds our hearts together, melts them, and crushes them in the end, in a cruel twist.
Crush:
Someone we almost/maybe love, that has the potential of breaking you, fixing you, or straight up crushing you.

you claim i am unkind
swearing it by the dullness of my eyes
the sharpness of my tongue
the coldness of my hands

you swore it by the way i lunged
at anything that threatened me
anything that would protrude the barrier
i had built around myself

but where were you
when my eyes were
their bright blue hue
when my tongue wasn’t sharp
but soft and sweet
and i didn’t flinch
at the harshness of others

where were you
before the world got to me
and made me cold
where were you
when i warmed myself back up
finding everything light in the world
learning to love again

you claim i am unkind
which is fine
nobody is nice all of the time
but you only saw one moment
you didn’t see yesterday
you didn’t see tomorrow
you saw me battling the darkness
when i let the rotting, define me

where were you
when i stopped
letting the world define, me
and i began to define myself

Although I can't change the words you said
I can change their position in my head

What once was
'Your sparkle becomes a shadow in her brilliant light'
Will become
'Her sparkle becomes a shadow in your brilliant light'

If soothing the pain of his dull blades takes believing in those lies that shift the truth
Then so be it

Its not the words we say,
Nor is it the words we write
That tear our heartstrings,
That make us ache

Its the order they appear,
The time it takes them to disappear
From our minds,
From our lives

'I will never love her the way I love you'
Contains the same words it takes to become
'I will never love you the way I love her'

The same words,
The same definitions
In different positions,
With different intentions

I'm struggling with what it means to be a woman.
Does it mean that I am always in competition to be the top of my species?
Does it mean that I need to be perfect without a single curve out of line in order to find love?
Does it mean that I am only defined when owned by a man?
Does it mean that I can only find purpose in childbirth?
Does it mean that I will forever live in the shadow of men?
Does it mean that I am an object invented solely for a man's pleasure?
Does it mean that I'm forced to confine to gender roles and live in someone else's story?
Does it mean that I'm supposed to accept it when I'm harassed from across the street?
Does it mean that I'm supposed to lie there silent when he puts his hands up my skirt?
Does it mean that I am only worth 77 cents to a man’s dollar?
Does it mean that I am defined by my looks rather than my intelligence?
Does it mean that I will never be capable of holding a major position of power due to my mood swings?
Does it mean that I am defined by how many men I have had *** with?
Or does it mean something else entirely.
It's difficult learning to love being a woman.
Obvious and damaging disadvantages are visible to observers.
We are regarded as second best, property of our man.
We are erased from history, our pain is minimized and forgotten.
We are oppressed and have to fight for our rights.
We are afraid to walk the streets at night, afraid for our lives.
We are harassed without care and without penalty.
We are ***** and murdered for refusing proposals.
We are expected to live on the sidelines as a housewife whose only priority should be her children.
We are expected to keep quiet in situations of domestic abuse.
We are expected to be perfect, and pretty, fresh for a man’s picking.
We can’t even advocate for our own equality without being demonized.
There are times where I wish I wasn’t a woman.
Being a woman comes with innumerable expectations, pressures, and responsibilities.
My existence is not defined by a man, or by the patriarchal expectations that have been placed on me.
I am breaking free of my confinements and I’m not afraid to admit that,
I'm struggling with what it means to be a woman. And that's okay.
//sarahmann

Strong.
Perhaps a knot of muscle or
a face to wear.
Or the bartender's hand slipped.

Fragile.
Maybe a shattered glass orb or
a note about to break.
Or our egos.

Dark.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
the center of a black hole.
Or 5:00 in winter.

Light.
"Let there be" or
something that perforates the night.
Or just the pillows,
shedding feathers through
tiny linen holes
that float down near the heating vent
then explode upward in the gust.