It feels like fireworks in the midst of a whirlpool. It's like considering yourself as one crazy denying fool. You'll admire yourself on the mirror wishing you can be notice by your attributes, wishing you were pretty. Or fantasize events that is a kiss away from reality. Dress your best to impress throughout the night. Most notably, smile for not reason. We've all been there. You'll just observe your name changed to Alice. The Alice who walks inside his life, into his wonderland. You never get tired of it. To tell you, even the happiest place on Earth could be tbe prison that tortures you in. And you aren't aware of it because you loved everything about him, until you turned to be negligent to yourself. Sometimes, you get fond of your jewel tears for they are the TREND, the BLOOD, the depiction of malignant PAIN. Girl, it costs a lot. There's nothing beautiful about them. It's not worth it. It's not right to commit self-harm just to prove how dark you could be. Keep in mind, you are the light to this world. Never the destruction. You are made to inspire. To mold the world even a better place, to make a stand for correct treatment. Then, one day, you learnt you're disgusting. You're ugly, just because he rejected you or hurt you. Don't swap your confidence over ungrateful things. You are beautiful. No need to change unless it's an urge to improve.

There's nothing wrong with fantasizing, but be careful. Every scene on your little play might bring you agony and ups and downs. Speaking of looking good, dress for yourself, not for men. Wear heels, sweatshirts, makeup because you wanted too. Not because someone like you to. It's a huge talk that you're finally comfortable with your own skin. Same to men. Don't be shy and timid and express whatbyou truly feel, it's not less masculine. We are humans, we all have problems to share with. If you decided to keep it, your anchor will drown you. Smile with all your heart and freedom. Do it while it lasts. And it will last if you're with us. Maybe one day, peace would be no longer a word applicable to counted countries, but a sight of a new coming tomorrow.

It was then when I saw us.
A feminist catastrophe; I wrote us blue in felt tip
we fucked you lot over, I saw us as we seemed (To outside gazes)
fuck them all i thought; with their braces and their red stained cheeks and the whites of their eyes
I still loved them; more through place than desire

with a sprig of corn between my lips
I couldn't even convince myself
that I gave a fuck

I.
You guzzle gasoline shots acid trips down your lungs until everything is warm. The club is sweaty and overcrowded body’s smashing into each other, a seizure of electric color. A man grinds his body against yours, he did not ask permission but nobody looks upset –so you let him.
II.
After he violates you from one end to another you dive out the sliding glass doors for a breath of fresh air,

he grabs your arm

claiming what was rightfully his, no one looks upset except you so you let him
follow you.
III.
Guilt leaks onto your lips and crawls up your skirt. No one looks upset except you so it must be okay. He will not remember your name but you cannot forget the burned handprints on your thighs. He did not ask permission and you did not say no. You wonder how many times you have let men take advantage of you out of guilt.
IV.
You wake up in the morning guilt banging in your forehead. You turn the water pressure on high trying to scrub the guilt out of your skin, rubbed raw; bleeding down the drain you cannot erase the way his touch felt against your un-wanting flesh. He will not remember your name but you cannot forget the way he turned your body into a yard sale. “Mine” he said-- and who were you to turn down such a good offer?

When I was young,
I had long curly hair
That cascaded down my back
Like an ominous waterfall;
So dark and thick, it seemed to go on forever.
But, when I was in school, it was always tied up.
It was a challenge for my mother to tame it with a brush
And keep it in the confines of a bun.
She said it was to keep my hair
from getting to my and others’ faces.
But some people still managed to make me feel bad for having such “unruly” hair
when the most it’s been exposed is when I take out my hair tie just to tie it back up again.
For years I tried to straighten it;
Hair rebonding every year,
Straightening iron ever morning,
Damaged hair and damaged pride every day.

They say a woman’s hair is her crown;
She must wear it with her chin up
And flaunt it unabashedly.
This is to the girls who do.
This is to the girls who dye their hair magnificent colors
To match their colorful personalities.
This is to the girls who cut their own hair
Because hair salons charge so much for a trim.
This is to the girls who shave all their hair for charity
Or for support of the girls in chemotherapy.
But this is also for the girls in chemotherapy,
Who are still thriving even though they’re suffering.
This is also to the girls whose hair are being treated like an anomaly,
Their braids being pulled and afros being patted.
This is also to the girls who can’t land a job
Because their skills were degraded by their “unprofessional” hair.

A woman’s hair is her crown
But a queen does not need a crown.
A queen is not just some girl with a shiny thing on her head.
A queen is a figure of power, compassion and grace.
She wears the crown, not the other way around.

every time you teach her that masculinity is strength,
you put a nail in her newborn coffin.
because you have taught her that she is simply an extra to a man's story,
she will wander hopelessly trying to find that strength in men who will only give her half-truths.
she will endure pain because she is nothing but a weak willed woman.

every time you teach him that feminity is weakness,
you have tied the noose for his little neck.
because he will always put himself down because he should be a man not a boy and weakness just doesn't fit in that box,
he will never learn how crying is an artform.
he will forever be a boy.

so keep your bigoted ideologies inside and throw away the key,
because the greatest gift you could give to your darling is to be free.

It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind butt-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of tits holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, scissoring, strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing hymen- tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to suck your dick even though you will not go anywhere near her clit.  You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: fuck off.

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn't you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do, love
split his head open?
you can't make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.