the nature of a woman is pain
she lives in silence
not a nail in sole would rouse her
she is not perturbed
but you will believe it
so she won't make a sound
for her voice is deafening
billowing with accusations and slander
how could woman not be happy in her confinement?
she is exactly how she should be
when she is small, mute, and most of all unremarkable
no woman should have the gall to look a man deep in his eye
if not without her clothes
so keep your head down *****
or you will be dealt with
man has the power
the strength
the resources and
the will
to take you
to **** you
to **** you
learn now and in earnest
lest your beauty or pride dissuade you
from finding your place in this world

I feel soil in the pit of my stomach,
A seed planted without permission,
With no sun to grow, no water to drink,
I feel it rotting inside of me,
That flower, never grown, wastes away,
I feel it move and tug at my veins,
Pleading for water and sunlight,
But I must tell it to be quiet,
To be silent because he listens,
I tell my little flower to hold his cries,
because beyond those closet doors,
I sense his looming figure,
I sense it with every bit of me,
But it moves and tears me inside,
and I lust over a single tear, a single scream,
But I can't. I shiver. Breathe through my hand,
and curl into a ball, too afraid that my fear
will echo. I hush. I tremble. I bite my tongue.
Iron in my mouth, my throat closes, my
stomach bursts, I smell soil, my picture
now on a milk carton,
Not in my grave am I found

Bipolar love
sings dreams and
nightmares to me,
It coaxes me into
awakeness,
and paralyzes
me into sleep.

It becomes it,
because I fear it--
Becomes unspoken
and ignites an anger
so vulnerable I melt
into cursed tears.

It swallows me whole,
uses me and spits
me out~  empty is
how I feel,
I wonder,
Ever so often,
How it was I
drifted into this
endless sleep.

I faintly hear
a click,
like a bullet
leaving a pistol.
I wonder who it
hit.

We screamed to be heard, marched to express our rage. To bleed with our fallen sisters, for I am her, and she is me. We all lived each other’s suffering.

The dust has settled now, quiet returned.
Yet I still can’t breath. I am still not safe.

I cry silently for my country. I no longer connect to her. My love and pride is only filled with disappointment. She has left me sad, and empty and afraid.

My son asked me, “Why do you refer to South Africa as a she?” I look at him dumbstruck, he continues, “Perhaps SHE has always been a HE!”

This realization is hard to swallow.
This... scares me half to death.