i was taught to respect men,
to do as they pleased.
whatever they wanted —
labour, trust,
kisses, hugs,
all tasks to complete.

i was taught to be present
and think about
what to cook, what to clean.
improving the home
was my responsibility,
my duty:
wife/woman.

chores weren’t lessons
to prepare me for adulthood.
they were the unwritten contract
for a gig i never booked —
emotional provider,
on call for life.

i was told
to wither the storm,
that it would pass
once he went to bed,
that who i really was
could emerge then,
unsuppressed.

i was told to think small
and never dream,
focus on finding decent company,
settle and provide grandkids
so they can grow up
in the cycle i did.

i tried to obey,
i swear.
but it never fit.

i wasn’t born
for the sake of men.
i exist,
but only
for myself.

I am still capable of ****** springs
and rivers with waters so clear
you’d never know how shallow the bodies are buried,
or how thoroughly I poisoned the well

periods are not that bad.
except when it feels like
i’ve split my spine
on concrete.

if it was something
men had to go through,
they’d get paid leave.
once a month
for at least a day.

i’ve taken codeine,
my brain is fuzzy
but it doesn’t stop the pain.
i can feel my pelvis
snap like a twig
as i turn at my desk —
still, somehow,
with a smile on my face.

thing is,
sometimes it’s not that bad.
it hurts
like a storm of glass
piercing through skin
but we do what’s expected
without talking about it.

but on days like this,
when i’m half in my grave,
and, i wish i was joking,
i’d really appreciate
if someone,
anyone,
just took out
this decayed,
rotten thing.

i find myself
praying
for that sort
of sorcery to exist.

anyone?

The woman and the girl
are one in the same

She finds joy in wall rainbows,
And loves the rain

She makes crockery
Imprinted with dinosaurs,
She likes shopping at thrift stores
For clothing that screams whimsy -

Beaded necklaces,
dark velvet
And cute embroidery

Videogames
With quests primeval,
And moral threads
That aren’t so medieval

They whisper,
“There’s more to the journey
than simply good vs evil.”

                        
                                              The void still exists -
                                                  That gaping abyss

                                                           Cold as glass,
                                                         But weightless

                                              It does not pull now
                           She can stare all she likes now
                              It's all but a fascinating sight

                                              There is no question
                                                     Whether to stay,
                                                                     Or to go

                        Eleven was such a long time ago

slice me open
    bleed me dry
you tear into me like a
           starved, feral animal

but it’s not the same, is it?
      there’s a difference between
                        you
             and the wild animal

a wild animal acts upon instinct
          you
      act upon perversions
          you have intention
a bear would not
      do those things

The mirror shines an echo of reality
a thousand times blurrier than I see.
The white lies praise closure, toxic autobiography,
as wax eyes glaze over, magnetic abnormality.

Painted mouth, a harsh sculpted shape.
Torn plastic hair, a blocked-off escape.
Between the fluorescence and the silver reply
the fruits of my labour or a sordid
fruit fly?

The scars on my shoulders, the spots on my face;
saturated colours polluting the lace.
Rouge tinted balm, a turned sickly ochre,
My elbows together,
shoulders narrower, triangular figure;
carved by an egoist, all angles and fissures.

The moisturiser refuses to sink into my skin,
a tantaliser of trial, on the surface, a swim.
Impenetrable, inaccessible, my hands rip the surface.
A false doll face with a fast fading purpose.

What motherhood is
rediscovering
your whole being

in these multiple foci of endless universes

Finding spots of
happiness
hidden amongst

These oblique moments of time

Learning that
salvation
is

Her

And within

Her

coarse form of courage
to take it

One step a day
Two breaths in
One slow, really slow out

And still
when she goes out

She'll do so brightly

With that genuine smile

Girl, you are no puppet.
You are not made to entertain.
You are imperfect and should love it—
That you are beautifully whole—
Despite the pain.

Not in batting eyes,
Lies the truth of what a woman is.
It’s in the red she bleeds
And in the dreams her wounded heart keeps—
Aching to be perfect, yet
Unknowing, brings life to earth.

She needs no angel hair or curves refined,
Nor tall, nor petite must she be.
She is the soul that breathes life,
Not the heart that seeks validation,
For she is heaven’s whispered gift,
A light that lifts, a spirit swift.

''A beautiful weather,
Where trees float in the air,
Where the sound of rain
Just makes you want to catch a train.

It's all in the picture now,
Since the day I made a vow.

Nothing lasts forever,
I thought it was impossible to say the word “never.”

I'm just a girl whose dreams are too high,
But never high enough to defeat me.

I'm still the same girl you see every day,
I am the girl that I dream to be.

No matter how many times you blow,
I will still let myself grow.

For every leaf that fell from the tree,
For every tear that escaped and said, “I'm free...”
For every flower that I was given,
That made me fly in the dream I lived in.

I'm here today, for all the women who never got to say:
“I wish to be whoever I want to be... and someday, I will be.”

You see, this is not a drill,
Or a game you can finish on a grill.

It’s ourselves—our rights, our voices—who will be heard,
Within our dreams that will be free, like a bird.

The sky is clear,
And the sound of rain is all I want to hear.
While the moon is gazing at me,
And the stars are inspiring me.

Ugh…
No better day to write how I feel.''