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.''

i stood before the mirror,
pale as a powdered lie,
with strands the colour of fallen empires
and dignity rubbed dry.

the bleach had no mercy,
the dye had no aim —
i emerged from the wreckage
with only myself to blame.

my scalp, a battlefield,
my pride, a powdered wig.
i whispered threats to heaven
with a plastic comb so big.

the townsfolk fled in silence,
the moon refused to rise,
and even my reflection
looked away from my disguise.

somewhere between brass and madness,
i found a kind of grace —
the lord of bad decisions,
with toner on my face.

so let the ships keep sinking,
let the storm winds howl and hiss —
i’m lord cutler beckett, darling,
and i was born for this.

Gargantuan slack-jawed
hunchbacked
creature pours itself over the seams of its dresses and kills flowers as it
drags pale soles across the eggshells
littering the ground.

We must starve it;
We must **** it;
When it looks in the mirror it cracks it.

Then heinous beast
no more shall feast
and emaciated it shall become.
A shell of a thing, a carcass in fact,
the meat falls off the bone,
but its brain is still intact.

Poor thing.
Warped thing.
You wouldn’t think she’s human,
this thing.

There is an old, cherry oak Grandfather clock perched atop the hearth of my girlhood. In the early days, I never knew the absence of its ticking. Every room, every season, every dream— superimposed over a perpetual rhythmic symphony. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Until one day, many moons ago, I found a garden filled with garden sounds. An Earthsong played all through the summer, and as my limbs grew, so too did the space between that clock and me. So too, did the choir of humanity in my ears.

These days, I have sewn seeds in a lifetime of gardens, and I have heard each and every hymn. The harmony of the world clawed its way into my heart like a river-carved canyon and never stopped singing. But sometimes, in the stillness of the night, it fills my spirit once again, that clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. In scrapbooks and old letters. Tick. Tick. Tick. In a broken silver locket and the remnants of a poem written long ago. Tick. Tick. In the arms of the girl I love. Tick.

There is an old, cherry oak Grandfather clock perched atop the hearth of my girlhood. I am a woman now, but I listen for the ticking still.