i am a woman with pain built in.

lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &
waiting.

removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.

washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.

warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––

i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
again.

What is a woman?
She is too much
.
Too much joy, like her heart is a bird which beats wildly against the cage of her chest,
(the cage Adam gave her, keeping her together)
Too much pain to contain alone, a tether
To the hands of those who might abuse her
.
Too unrestrained in love that it spills into the world freely, unknowing of the price
Too free in this jealous world, that seeks to condemn what it cannot consume,
Ex lovers, or demons she dare not exhume
.
Too much place in her skin, too much shine in each tress
Too much space in her limbs, so she must become less
So much beauty and life, to love and to touch
She knows what she wants, a little too much
.
Too tender to be broken, so she must become tough

And what is a man,

But not enough

If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the
color

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.

i don’t want to be a woman
standing on a suitcase packed with psychedelics
losing her remaining mind in a ditch on the side of the deserted road.
i don’t want to be a woman
who’s taught to love herself but the others around her
are peach trees in summer
with lips plump and red
with tiny thighs that extend.
i don’t want to be a woman
with frail bones because the calcium deficiency caught her early
shouting for her knees that are weak
and for her obsolete brain waves that forget their true place.
i don’t want to be woman
following the trail until it suits her no more
creating a secret code then tossing it into the river
with jaguar eyes and a lopsided smile
she’s fine with letting new histories die in her arms.
i don’t want to be a woman
in all truth, i don’t want to be associated with anyone
i don’t belong in this body, in this mindset, in this world
every word on each paper is screaming at me to rebuke my inner organs and to become a knight without limits
because i don’t believe in speaking up for the sake of speaking up.
i don’t want to be a woman
or a man for that matter
i just want to exist in the forest fires of los angeles
the city with no angels
no reason to be endowed with this city of torches and absolute tomfoolery
but look where i am now
i discarded my existence for fame and rash decisions
i don’t want to be a woman, do you?
if i put on a halter top and show you more skin, would you love who i am or the flesh that is impure and shameful?
i don’t want forced views to be my condemnation
i don’t want your silk dresses and pearls.
sham admiration is not my master
nor will it ever be in my mind or my soul.

        i don’t want to be woman, do you?

I either say too little or too much
I'm unbreakable, or too delicate to touch
Flirting with extremes, mine is a plastic soul
Every minute that I fail takes its toll
Should I shut up, should I continue to talk,
Should I be vulnerable, should I be a rock?
Should I stop writing, or should I not care,
Am I being too honest for weak minds to bear?
No matter what, it's never enough
I guess I'm not made of the right stuff
What's the point of even attempting to hide
When I see they will never be satisfied?
It doesn't seem right, this world, why do I please?
What ****** deities am I trying to appease?
So I'll gladly wear my heart upon my sleeve
Knowing I will not be granted a reprieve.

and she emerges, her wings
taking shape into the spring of youth
a crimson butterfly painting with her blood
against your words of expectation.
she is
                 beautiful,       free.
deciding against the whims of men
so intent on criticizing her very nature.

and she becomes the sun, burning brightly with her blade.

What a world I live in
To experience emotions as powerfully as I do

My sadness is not an ache in my heart
With mascara tracks running down
It is deep, mournful, body-shaking sobs
Oceans of clear tears streaming from reddened green eyes

My anger is not a flickering flame of annoyance
Nor a clenched body needing a release
But an entirely enveloping wildfire
Blinding me from reason and logic

And neither is my love just comfort
Or a desire to care and be cared for
But a presence that encapsulates every thought
Every movement, every moment, defined by desire

Oh, it is a poet's dream
And a woman's curse

I'm a Feminist
But
My ovaries are in pain.

I'm a woman
But
I don't feel connected to my main vein.
I'm bleeding in places much deeper than my-

I'd say the word
But i'll refrain.

Instead of being taught to embrace,
I've learned to drown
In
The
Pain
Of
Being
A
woman.

Soft
Weak
Instead of
strong
And unique.

Instead of taking agency,
I'm treated like an antique.
Fragile,
Even though i've survived
Everything men told me...

(I'll leave you to ponder but
won't describe. )

I love being a woman,
But it's a love/hate relationship
I can't lie. 
I take pride
But when my head hits the pillow,
I do cry.

In fact, I mourn.

I mourn the excitement society had for me when I was born.
Now i'm rejected,
Because of children i haven't ejected,
Penises i haven't erected,
a husband i haven't selected.

A pariah if you will,
But i have my own will.
Something women are shamed for because we feel,
Feel the need to take back our power
Because if we don't,
Someone else will,
Tell us
What to wear,
How to heal,
**** our souls until we cant feel,
Leaving us empty
Alone and afraid
Only to arrest us for a feminist parade.
I love being a woman
But my heart is in pain,
I find solace in the depths of a woman,
So I know i'll remain...