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Meghan Aug 2020
It was almost a birthmark, a death sentence embossed on the deepest crevice on her heart. Grace had always known that the noble blood fleshed her existence. In return of power and glory, she must wear the brightest crown which will light the horizons to a warm shade of amber. That someday she would rise together with the sun and cradle the stars with this invigorating honor.

The princess fancied the notion of becoming next queen for its promised delight as other royals often tell her. Every time she shut death to birthday candles, it was all that she wished from the watching gods above. To be the perfect heir, the ideal ruler, and especially, the greatest candidate for the crown.

From the gardens waved the precocious white bloom of calla lilies. The clouds were a dash of milk frozen from the never ending stretch of blue. Faint chirps of birds echoed around the towers. On the palace ground, Grace acquired skills of a squire, for it was written through time she would defend this very castle in her hands. Days were occupied with lessons and lunches, meetings with lords and charities. She was a lady of compassion, inherited the old queen’s discipline and sophistication. The townspeople loved her greatly. They cherished her like a living ornament caught in a sea of the unlikely. A depiction of a good woman whose soul was constructed to comply with the rules and duties she is given. Accustomed from the expectations, the princess endures hardships, turning predicaments into something magnificent. The entire kingdom was pleased. And only then, the exploring winds tell otherwise.

Nobody knew Grace wanted to dance. There was this rhythm of renaissance enough to make her pointe shoes swoon across the dungeon room, her shadow--the audience. Instead of being entertained by minstrels, she would prefer the empty theater which she calls home whenever the sun sinks a sudden thought of change. Or that one time she secretly headed for the woods, not far from the stream, and put on a show for the skeletal trees to applaud to. A perfect piece of broken melody. That is what she all was. Her desires transformed into a banquet she must not feast on.

Because she is everything the crown is not.

A young amateur star, an artist of fascination, and a dreamer of the unknown. Perhaps, these were enough reasons why she became a magnet for chaos and everlasting detriments. It murdered her during the day-- kissed her a goodnight. The almond eyes that sync with her cinnamon tea, swirling in brown, blinked briny tears. From withstanding the pain, sustaining the hold, even though the harsh fate made its call. The only concept which drove her far is everyone’s acceptance.

But who could she be really? A figment on the stage? If at each glide the eyes foresee her as a rebel, much to her chagrin, who would look at her then? If the depth of the ocean has been buried within her voice, to everyone’s astonishment, who would listen to her anyways? What if she does not fulfill the responsibility which the kingdom predetermined for her, approved of her? Who would love Grace?

She built an empire so high, she cannot climb down her own stairs.

The message of the wind sounded like a terrible lullaby. It was too venomous for her dilemma. Because until this moment, this scenery, this pronounced living, she never stop hoping that one day, she will no longer be a stranger to herself. When the archbishop lifted the crown from the velvet cushion, the stones shimmered its vow as the brightest. The Queen’s authority shined through all of them. Before she sheds a tear, it already settled on her head, delicate and ethereal, faultless. Grace realized she spent most of her life fitting the crown which does not belong to her in any form.

No! She is not going to mourn another morning, nor sleep the night with a heavy heart. Fear might threatened to slit her throat, but she was not having it! The princess unveiled her mask and hurled the kingdom’s crown beyond the assembly.

“What a disgrace!” They thundered.

The formation of her identity is what stunned the people. None of them expected such disaster to occur, due to this, her royal majesty has sent all white horses in search of the beloved child. Nowhere to be found, her linen dresses flickered in fire while the crowd stared in horror. And she was nothing, but a forgotten soul.

Trees were once again clothed in green after the icy blaze of winter. The princess raced through the minty grasses and drank the enchanting smell of lilac, almost like a doe playing in the wild. She felt light as a feather, dancing in joyful exuberance. Other girls joined her below the white sunshine as they twirled and sang. It was the perfect moment to reveal the blind side buried for so many times. The blood that once dripped in the glass of her ill-reflection began to fill the rims of imperfection. Luminescence was so brilliant she had to squint to see.

The brightest crown anyone can wear is to be their true selves. No matter who you were born to, or where you live, despite the obstacles, and consequences. It does not make you less of a person, for you already are complete.

She was not a disgrace. It is still Grace after all.

THIS GRACE…
i have written this poem  because i never became who my family wanted me to be. and sure enough, the expectations are stabbing me, a lot.
Sparky Mar 2020
Inside my underwear I thought
A red flower had fluttered in,
And stuck itself there like sap.

Inside my underwear I thought
I had spilt a spoon of strawberry jam,
It felt so sticky on my fingers.

Inside my underwear I thought
A crimson blob of sea anemone
Had swum on out of me globosely.

Turns out it was only blood,
Only blood, only blood
I wasn’t even frightened
Even when it started hurting
I’ve always found it pretty
Growing pools of tulips
Inside my underwear.
John McCafferty Jan 2020
Time may be elementary
moments lost in motion
Quiet periods provide
a power in between the lines
It's potency lies from within
Some gifts are given but not received
and hard to read for us to
see these silent signs
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Bruno Aug 2019
My birth certificate was written in the blood “she”
(I, me, they) would one day shed from the bleeding body
Given to me by who knows what (how does it bleed without being
Cut) because my ***** is not cognitive of what it is (nothing)
To me and my period is done to me you can’t know what it does
To me but it has nothing (nothing) to do with me

And I’ll never be able to speak of the violence it acts on me
To bleed (and bleed) and be called “she”
Because wars have been fought in my ***** (does
This mean I’m a war criminal) and I am all scars and all blood and my body
Is not a graveyard because a graveyard holds something but I hold nothing
I want to hold (nothing) for my period to stop being

Misgendered because “shesheshe” is not my being
“She” wants to be a prophecy but the violence of “she” slices me
The repetition of “she” of the tiny letter “F” in blood ink does (nothing)
Does battles on me (does violence) because the repetition of “she”
Is not enough to create a prophecy and words do not change my body
Believe me I have tried (I have tried) but nothing does

Because my body is vein-seeped concrete my body does
Everything I don’t want it to but somehow without being
My enemy because the wars fought in my ***** (on my body)
Were not fought by me and the violence of my body is not me
It is every ******* who has called me “she”
And the violence of my period compared to “she” is nothing

But my period wouldn’t be violent if it was labelled as nothing
If “she” wasn’t written in blood my period wouldn’t do what it does
(To me) but blood has no gender I have no gender “she”
Is not my *****’s gender because my ***** is an ***** being
Exactly what it’s supposed to be not “she” but me
(I, they) functioning as a reminder of the wars fought on my body

The concrete gravestones tumbled on my body
The victory celebration on my body where violence is nothing
Because “she” is nothing not concrete or a graveyard to me
So I will mishear “she” and I am free from what it does
From my birth certificate blood drenched burning “she”
Is gone my violence is gone I have brought myself (they, I) into being and

My body is not a graveyard it is a sanctuary “she”
Cannot enter nothing but my they-being
Can enter because I (me, they) know what it does
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Alicia Apr 2019
“Look at the state of you.”

Mum joins me in the bathroom,
Lays down next to me
And holds my hand.

I cry,
Unable to move.
My insides clenching,
churning,
cramping,
eating away at itself.
Blood dripping down my leg,
The sign of womanhood
Apparently.


Would it be too big headed
To compare my
Monthly pain with the state
Of the planet
Or the governments
Of various countries?
I could be so egotistical
That I say that we’re all
Laying next to a screaming
Figure, laying on a bathroom floor.

I won’t be a ***** about it,
So I’ll just imply it.
day twenty seven of escapril - the state of it all
Pretty girl Apr 2019
i am but a child with my eyes closed believing i am invisible
cloaked in my own curiosity
i tiptoe over sentences and ask about big words like
what does ******* mean?

My mama told me don't ask for it
What is it?
How do I paint my nails red without smearing the Polish?

When i felt (becoming a woman) run down my legs along went my wonder, childlike
My body was now poetic in the way it wrote verses across the pad
kiran goswami Oct 2018
Red, is the colour of​ Love.
Red, is the colour of courage.
Red, is the colour of strength.
Red, is the colour of bravery.
But then why does the red colour on my jeans, has to stop me ?
Why, every month do girls need to question their potential ?
Why can't I say the word 'PERIODS'  in public?
I'm afraid all the while,
This word has to be in hushed tones, in 'whispers', so that I 'stay free' of the whispers behind my back.
I need to carry sofy, so that I stay confident and comfy.
When my emotions have to be concealed behind the four walls,
But every night,
I fear that the wind would silently come while I'm asleep.
And would laugh and chatter with the trees about me insecurities.
  I know that my periods are my strength.
My periods don't cage me because I am a bird set free.
I am the Lady Bhagirath,
For I resurrect the sacred red river, once, every month.
Now I go out more easily when on my periods,
rather than staying at home and now I walk with pride.
Now I don't bring my pads wrapped in the black bags because I am not ashamed of carrying them .
I was Daddy's Little Prince who's now become a Wonder Woman.
So I tell every girl to walk with pride,
Not because they say
'Chin up princess or the crown slips'
But because I say
'Keep your head held high wonder woman or you won't be able to fly.
sunprincess Jun 2018
Second by second, minute by minute
Like twenty first century robots
The time keeper keeps periods of time
organized in individual slots

He dissects these periods methodically
Creating mysterious time lines
Cause that's his thing, his own thing
Just to blow away our minds
education
we
had
words
only
she
still
has
an
?













...
.­.
.
period
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