You woman are the eye of the storm.
Remember that you are the force that reckons.
Life gravitates around you as you are the source of its existence.
When they bring you to your knees remind them.
It’s you who brought them to their feet.
From your womb the universe re-birthed itself in your image.
Yet, they call upon men to rebuild what women have already given them.
They dare to call upon your emotions.
As if mother earth hasn’t shown them her wrath.
We’ve swallowed cities with a single wave.
We’ll wipe your slate cleans as we did the City of Atlantic.
When they have forgotten their place remind them.
Speak of the continents taken off the map.
Tell them of the stories when mother earth had a vengeance.
Command an omen for the time California was engulfed in flames.
The storm is but a pupil in the eye of a woman.
We bring and we shall take.
I’ve wanted pretty, soft, hands for as long as I can remember;
The kind that pair well with coffee mugs and bookstores.
The kind you don’t hesitate to kiss;
but mine are riddled with anxiety.
There are scars on my knuckles from walls that didn’t deserve my anger
and I can’t seem to stop biting at my fingernails.
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I am the strong girl
who scales mountainsides
and presses my hips into the walls I once used to punish myself.
My hands haven’t been the same since I covered them in chalk and started gripping onto what has become a lifeline for me.
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I will be the strong one.
Falling onto his back
But I want to fall on my own
Standing only leaning towards him
He is helping me to cope
Now I realize this
And it is not funny at all
I thought I was stronger
But it was his strength I was measuring
And I needed it
Though now the new times have come
Still wanna love him
But let him go.
So that I finally can simply hold his hand
Without putting all my weight and sorrow
On his shoulder.
I wanna have a bright tomorrow
And see it positively for my own
My greatness is hard to find
In insecure times
When I need to remind myself
Sometimes in rhymes
That my self worth
Is not connected to others
That it's also not dependent on success
That in fact I am already capable
To feel strong and safe on my own
Despite all the trauma I have gone through.
It is hard though
Cause one part still fears
Needs a saviour
Doesn't want to rely on myself
Doesn't know that I can help.
How to reach my self,
My hurt inner child?
How to let my partner go
And to rewire myself
Can anybody understand what I mean?
I have a deep wound within.
I am working so ******* myself,
Really trying different techniques,
In the end art is what's helping my health and the stone inside of me shrinks.
Though the wound is looking for a substitute
And I don't want to feel like a ******* :D
I just want to give enough love to myself
Isn't it enough to help myself?
How to end the unhealthy dependency
And still keep my relationship safe?
Does anybody know some kind of recipe?
Because I'm really looking for a way...
How to turn my attention back to myself and stop feeling emotionally dependent on my partner?
I slept in a little too late
a few days that week.
when the pharmacist called
about my prescriptions,
I didn't refill them
for the next month.
I forgot to eat breakfast
and maybe lunch
and I didn't remember
whether or not I ate dinner.
I didn't buckle my seatbelt
when I got into my car.
I didn't show up
when we made plans,
and eventually I stopped
making plans altogether.
I stopped joking about suicide
and you thought that
was a good sign,
but you didn't realize
I stopped joking
because this time,
I was serious.
when I hung up the phone
I said "goodbye"
instead of "goodnight."
and no one tried to stop me
because no one knew
because all of these little changes
seemed to mean nothing.
you didn't see
that I was hurting
until the tiles on
our bathroom floor
you didn't see
that I was bleeding
until I had already bled out.
but on that day,
my story did not end.
my funeral was not
my death was not
on that Wednesday.
when I end the call,
I don't say "goodbye."
I never say "goodbye"
I will still be here.
even when it hurts
to simply get out of bed,
I will be here.
I will be here
because I am still breathing.
I am still alive
and there are so many
that I haven't seen yet.
The Female form
Drawn to an energy
Surrounding a space
An inkling askew.
Alike to them, I am not
I do not sing
Nor do I dance
I strive to outdo.
Beginning this journey
With sensations of zing
Do I draw on the spirit
Emptiness to ensue.
Traits not always sanguine
My heart will sting
If I go beyond
Match only what is true
Exhausted I am ever.
Do not throw the string
You’ve come too far
Do not be subdued.
Let it be owed to the girl who wears struggles as a beaded pearl necklace.
Who never chocked on the words “I need help”.
Refusing to wither away into the corners of which life pushed her.
Grabbing with a tenacity that assured others this will too heal.
Scars to be ravaged in glitter as if gold was the only thing to bleed.
A woman worth loving in the way she pronounced I, redefined I.
No proclamations of apologies.
Rest assurance that you didn’t need to be broken to learn how to love.
Never ashamed of the way life made her say sorry before thanking you.
An omen to herself for not loving every part sooner.
Giving leeway to the forgotten little girl.
They tell me to be quiet.
Quiet enough my presence doesn’t make a ruckus.
Small enough that my presence is untouched.
Shrinking into spaces that they wish I was forgot in.
They tell me I speak too loudly.
Take up too much space in the room when I make a proclamation.
My dad was the first man to teach me women shouldn’t talk back.
With every slap to the face my voice grew deeper.
My brother said if I didn’t put myself in a corner, they would do it for me.
With every push I learned to stand my ground.
My mom told me that my slick tongue made me unbearable to men.
So, it grew sharper to lash at those who spite my freedom.
Legs crossed, dressed pressed, and hair slick back in a pony.
Sit pretty but not enough to leave them tempted.
The only wise thing I ever learned from my parents was to carry a key in my hand.
Check your car before getting in.
Walk at night only in company.
Carry your phone, but don’t talk on it.
I always wondered how the world has groomed woman but never refined their men.
Never directed my brother that no meant boundaries.
Never spoke of respect as if its given and not earned.
Never addressed that a woman was object of desire but not possession.
Speak up woman, but not louder than those men around you.
Assert yourself but never over the men.
Be strong, firm but mend as I need you to when I need you to.
If I was to vocal, I was a ***** & if I was so quiet, I was a door mat.
If I was too conservative, I was a ***** and if I was to provocative, I was a *****.
If I was to a leader, I was bossy and if I followed, I lacked a backbone.
I wondered what strength I had in being all of that at once.
How I could be the ****** and the maker.
This was the closest to god I ever felt.
& it makes me wonder if god was a woman too.
and so i dream of filling my life
all the spaces her laugh
so i dream of self affection
(all the hazy heat of a
milkywildflowered oatmeal bath)
all the attention i would wish
the capacity to shower her with
i dream up warmth and strength;
things her laugh points to
when i go inwards
and do the work,
in my mind
in the fields,
I have to do alone.
when I dream
she is the archangel Jeremiel
about a motherfigure or what I'd wish for in a motherfigure or what I would wish to give of myself as a motherfigure.
Out of touch with the ground
I walk a thin line
I am in lonely equilibrium
A broken umbrella
On this trapeze
From these elapsing heart strings
New love's dividing line
Depends upon its precise timing
Port de bras
The illusion of imponderable lightness
Take a leap of faith
Reach out for me
trigger warning: abuse
here it is again,
that familiar feeling
so desperately missing that aching sensation,
the one which shows that he loves you
enough to use your body as a canvas
for his masterpieces
but this time
you fight back
and this angers him
for your body is not small
to fit in the
palm of his hand
but your long curls spill from his palm
and wrap around his arms,
tightening around his neck
eyelashes like blades
carving and scraping out each artery
one by one
seas of cellulite gushing
and flooding into his
submerging him deep
under the rivers
of your divine revulsion
he usually isn’t the type of man
but the way roaring screams are
being ripped from his throat
and the way his usually
black eyes transform
into white flags
you are strong enough to