God has always come
Back a woman.
Long before
there was a Jesus,
Eve stood in a Garden
And tried to correct
Her brother's sin;
She was Lilith then.

She packed her bags,
And strolled off  to
the mountains to be
with whomever she
So chose; She left
God and Adam to
Figure it out:
The lie the would tell;
The creature they would
Blame;
The clothes.

Yes, God has come
Back multiple times,
And in multiple screaming,
Female  forms..
She came back as
All the Dahomey
Women, The Amazons,
Salem Witches, Big Mommas
Abuelas
And midwives.
God has. Had an endless
Universe of
lives.

She even came back a
a little Jewish girl;
Stowed away in an attic
During the Holocaust.
In India she came as
Phulan.  In Africa
She came as Winnie,
In Argentina, Chadron.
While men may name
their legends, myths
and fables, just as
Adam did.

God has.never.had
Names and titles
In mind;
  Every time a girl
takes a breath she is
reborn, she is there
Carrying revolutions
In her silences and
eternity in her hair.

She will come back
A fire next time.

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When they call you names and harass your crown on the street
When they tell you what you should or shouldn’t do with your body

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When they pluck your honey against your will yet they tell them you enjoy it
When they touch your skin yet they left it bleeding and bruised

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When they want you to cover your scars and pimples because they don’t meet the “beauty” standards
When they forcibly ask you to shave your hair because it doesn’t potray cleanliness and hygiene

My dear sister, I’m sorry I wasn’t there
When your rose is blooming and the moon is come but they show you their cold shoulders
When they make fun of your shape and laugh it off but they refuse to make a clean breast of it as an insult

Thus rise, dear sister
—for your pain is mine to carry
—for your wound is mine to mend
—for your war is mine to fight

I became everything
You weren’t for me.
You left the door open
Sure that the next would close it
On their way in,
But it took years
For me to grow tall enough
To reach the handle my **** self.
I opened it again
Years later
To walk out
Something I can be proud of.
I spent time in the dark
Afraid of the storms within
Wondering when you’d return.
But the day I realized you wouldn’t
Was the day
I became
A woman myself.
A proud, **** woman.

This one's for the girls who are considered
Mean, who don’t smile at strange men or
Move out of their path just because it’s expected.
The girl who, after playing with the boys,
Was accused of being ‘different’ for not letting
Someone copy her maths work.
The girl who gets angry and
The girls who only know how to ugly cry
And the girls who are told they are unlovable.
You are not unlikable,
People are intimidated by you, but don’t change.
Don’t you dare change who you are for anyone,
You are worth so much more than them.

"I want to be happy."
"Content woman."
"Successful."
"have a rich husband."

every teen girl's dream,
when asked what the future holds;
what happened to unicorn fantasies,
and our hearts of gold?

now instead of golden hearts,
we want men with trust funds and charm.

turning a cold shoulder to our true selves,
yet complaining about rude names,
when called ****** who're only after wealth.


why do we do this to ourselves?
we're so capable,
yet we'd rather lean on,
somebody who mistreats us,
and doles out small amounts,
of love and care;
we try so terribly hard,
to grasp on,
onto that slippery piece of feeling,
and when it leaves,
we're put back into that pit of empty,
pitch black and dull,
until they come back when they want us,
but we're still left wanting for more.

so, please.
learn from the story of millions.
stories of girls,
with so much potential.
don't force yourself to be content,
when you can bargain for more,
then,
only then,
can we step up the ladder,
to be even to those,
who jeered and mocked,
and took advantage,
of our kind hearts.


                                                              -YYC

what women have
birthed man tried
to put asunder
but no more
shall the fires of our
labor  be put out by
egotistical men
slopping around
the earth like castrated
pigs covered in their own
filth. what women have birthed
no man shall put asunder.

Ophelia drowned slowly, surrounded by petals, weighed down by cloth,
Ethereal, damp,
Watched but unhelped,
A sort of needless death,
Frothy, frivolous, decorated,
A pretty death.
A good woman brought to life by a man must live and die in pastels,
Slip passively away without complaint,
Go mad through a rose-tint,
Never pause and gasp unflatteringly for breath,
Even when she is drowning.

She loves wild
It was totally right
It's her choice
So world don't have any right
If she want to dance like
Fearless sweamer
She is dreamer
Beliver
Achiever
Forget her
Are you afraid of her

I'm slowly learning how to stop letting my fear get in the way of my happiness,
Not letting the past affect my opinion of the woman I am today.

Strong, Passionate, Resilient.

And not letting others validate who I am now or where I am going.

I no longer follow anyone else rules or guidebooks to live my life, my choices, mistakes and successes are mine to grieve, fix or celebrate.

So I'm letting go of the fear that controlled my vindictive behavior, and I'm embracing the woman I am and aspire to be.

the written word
will never do justice to a woman,
and yet i try to capture
the movements of strangers
as their lives weave in and out
of each others'.

with what ink
can i write down the colours
of a woman's day,
as she goes about her day -
measured movements,
silent prayers,
unsettled glances.
what metaphor
can ever perfectly capture
how she navigates tides and tides
of love and loss
and everything in between
like a sailor without
a North Star.
what verse
can perfectly worship
her strength, her fears,
her joy, her tears,
and everything that lies
in the middle of nothing,
nowhere.

i try to write down
a woman,
but my words,
any words,
will never be enough.