If I weren't burdened,
with the weight,
of being a woman...
What would I do?
If each step I took,
wasn't visually measured
in the shake of my hips,
or the weight, of my *******,
tell me,
what could I do?
I'd scream, for you to chase me,
and run towards the surf.
I'd throw myself, eagerly, upon its
cresting, ******* waves,
and lounge on top of bluest water,
floating idly by on its surface,
like a sleepy lotus flower...
dreamy, soft white petals,
stretched limberly towards the open sky,
and aching, for the kiss of sun.
I'd be unconcerned, and unaware
of the arch, of my back...
of the rosy fullness, of each cheek
as I bent, and knelt
between cascading water ripples
to capture pretty shells, and shiny stones
and present them all, to you,
with childish enthusiasm.
If I weren't burdened,
with the weight,
of being a woman,
I'd run, wild, through floral fields,
and hedge mazes,
as giddy, as a fairy.
I'd duck, under arboreal tunnels,
and climb, into the low-lying branches,
in the little copse, of trees,
and slumber sweetly
in its leafy canopies.
I'd immerse myself
between paperback pages,
as the wind steadily rocked me
like a babe, in its bassinet,
and the wind, whispered,
through vibrant leaves.
I'd rush out, to greet the rainstorm,
as its icy waters, folded over me.
I'd race, and run, and dance,
through puddles that split around bare feet,
and warbled, their enchanting echoes,
around the circumference
of saturated, joyful, ankles.
If femininity,
weren't the loaded gun
that presses my temple,
I'd wander, for hours, in pre-dawn streets...
blaring eighties music, like a wandering minstrel
down city streets and quiet, tree-lined roads,
until the bruisy, tangerine glow,
of impending sunrise,
gradually re-skinned my cheeks, and face.
I'd clamber across the overpass, to ogle the seasonal starbursts,
from up high,
in the blankest, blackest canvas;
fireworks screeching, screaming,
exploding, into new life,
thrown onto dark paper, like neon splatter-paint
Charring the ozone, to a hot, charnel glow
in an impossibly starry summer sky.
If womanhood, weren't the knife
they use to press my throat,
I'd spend the entire night under the stars,
gazing upwards, the way I used to.
I'd explore the navy breadth of midnight streets,
all its blues...nearly deaf, with resounding cricket chirps
nearly mute, beneath the busy squeal, of brown cicadas.
I'd travel for hours,
lost in a poetic passion,
just so in love, with things.
Dreamily gazing at a natural world,
with no strangers,
and no cars, following me
while my artistic eye,
drank in the atmosphere,
until satiated.
I'd climb poles, in sundresses,
clamber over fences,
explore the world,
and all of its understated beauty
without reservation, or end.
I could go anywhere,
I could go,
everywhere...
and never need a chaperone.
I'd think nothing of chasing dreams,
that suddenly grew teeth, or fangs,
and came after me,
like the main monster,
in a horror cinema.
I'd open up,
and freely speak,
to the people around me.
I'd never be too afraid,
to close my eyes, again
and receive a kiss,
at the end of a sweet date.
I'd feel pretty, to feel pretty.
I wouldn't try to hide it,
to chameleon myself into the crowd,
in the hopes that no one else,
would notice me.
I'd feel like family...was really family.
Smile so hard, that the mask I wore, would crack.
In short...
I would do all the things I used to do,
before someone showed me,
how dangerous it was, to live.
I really only wrote this because I noticed how much self-censuring I've done throughout the years, in order to protect myself. How much you have to change and correct your behavior, when the answer to everything that ever happened to you was always "you should have been more careful."
