when that shy
strand of hair
trembles out of
your skin.
slowly

ashamed of its
wanton birth.  

thinking it's an
'unwanted' curse
you're plagued
with, making it
your shame,
a pariah you must
deal with. thinking,
why on a man, i confirm his
manhood for a world revolving
in binaries. but, for a
woman all i am is a furtive indignity.

i want you to
caress it's roots, and
whisper to them-
           i will never let your
           birth go in vain by
           obliterating you
           to satiate howling
           bellies of hollow
           skeletons floating
           around seeking young
           flesh to feast upon.

i will honour you and if i may
choose to live without you.

i'll do that under no obligation
from a world assessing my
worth from the
arch of my hips.
or the
color of my skin.

"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"

The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion

while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality

while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite

The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise

The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us

Clink, clink, clanky clink,
she can feel her ornaments cling,
with one another - with her flesh,
she is tired, she is famished,
the stink of her sweat, all fresh, on her skin,
clink, clink, clanky, clink,
the bed creaks as her thoughts cling,
with one another, to her mother, brother, father,
to her childhood, to her friends, to her favorite cake,
to a piece of bread, that she hasn’t had, since the evening-
and overall - her stink!
Clink, clink, clanky, clink - the pace fastens,
who is the man within-
filling her up, taking her by force,
and yet she is abiding by - him?
Think, think, thap-thap -what was she thinking?
The thought is gone, he is not looking at her,
she is not looking at him - and yet he is ****** her,
and she is aiding him - clink. Clink.
Why couldn’t she marry the one, who filled her womb,
who accepted her, whom she desired too?
Caste, religion, tradition,
father, mother, that ******* brother,
all thought they were marrying her off-
To a stranger? Well, this tradition is prostitution.
He doesn’t even know how to pronounce her name,
and yet he is ******* her - how naive, how naive?
And soon he will be done,
and soon he will roll over and lie,
close his eyes - Die, she wants him to ******* die.
And she shall lie there in a pool of dreams,
with the clink, clink, clanky, clink,
echoing even in her sleep,
and her soul is lost, somewhere amidst,
this unfamiliar stink!

No.

The thoughts in my head
                            And the tingle of my skin
                                                     Do not belong to you

No.

My feet do not follow
                            The commands of your voice
                                                       Or the desires you express to me

No.

The words that leave your mouth
                                    Do not belong to me
                                                      Only I belong to me

No.

I do not mean that
              No matter how much you tell me
                                    That you know what I mean

No.

In a world that tells me
                             That I am wrong
                                              I will not stop telling myself
                                                          ­               *Just how right I am.

I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.

I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.

And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.

My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…

You **** much harder than me.
And when you ***, you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.

the seed
nestled in the safety
of the soil
enveloped by pressure
looks upward and hopes to grow

slowly
inching
further
the seed charts its course
each step
feeling the weight of earth
pressing downward

as it breaks
the green exposed
the world pushes back
"am i not supposed to see the surface?"
the seedling asks itself
confused and shamed
shunned
it retreats

it tries again
asking forgiveness for its persistence
minimizing its existence
struggling to fit into cracks already exposed
rather than forge them anew

slithering through
the path forces it farther away
it reaches the top
but here there's no sun

angry
the seedling wonders why
she must say sorry in order to grow
and that her dreams are cause for apologies

Restless leg syndrome
A hindrance on my being
Retching foam dribbles out
the side of my mouth
South it goes, down
to the ground.

Wound tight with salvia my
self-hatred flows in unity with it
The acidity of the bite bursts to flames
as the earth hits it

Worth every penny, I chuckle as
I chuck a bottle of pills into the
billfold of my coat.

"Won't this hurt?"
That's the point.
Right, back to the top

Restless leg syndrome
Catching on?
My mind can't contain one thought at a time
I spin on a dime, fine dining is the drug of
the millennial nines.
Hi! I'm super high today.

Just kidding, I'll never smoke ****
see me judging you in the corner?
I'm a straight laced, even paced
large tempered feminist *****.
Pitch me your best rich boy pitch
to get a date and maybe I won't chuck
your ***** into a ditch.

Hitch a ride down the road
Follow it now, down it goes!
Drop out quick!
Here comes the gun
run from it fast, till you reach the sun

Worship me or hate me, I don't really care.
Stare at me until you see who you wish
I actually was

t'was a sad story I read
when I found out you would be dead
by nine o'clock this evening

Did I tell you I plotted this reaping?
I peep in on your life from time to time
Crime is the center of my kind
Find me in the dark deep corners of
your mind, I'm always there
Seeing and watching but never debauching.

Have I mentioned I suffer from
restless leg syndrome?
It really is a hindrance on my being.

"Won't this hurt?", you ask
That's the point.
Right, back to the top