chipped tooth Jul 17

if i give birth it will be in the handicap stall of a mall bathroom
on Sunday afternoon
and people are noticing how
i ain’t been to church in a while
and it’s funny
how some spaces, just out of necessity
make themselves into chapels
i don’t have holy water but
i do have this coke zero and
i don’t have wafers but momma
gave me some motrin this morning

if i get married it will be in one of those old dusty dug outs
where someone had scratched
into the wall and
daddy’s workin and  momma’s sleepin so
i’m alone standing face to a man and God
i’ll wear my helmet and black face paint coz
i don’t have my Sundays’ best
and it’s funny  
how some spaces, just out of circumstance
must become a chapel

and when i leave Him
some, many nights later
i’ll go to midnight mass
and ask Mother Mary
how a stable must have felt

NoctOwl Jul 4

I am sorry.
You may have the beauty of a Greek goddess
And men worship your charm
But it is not enough

I am sorry.
You may have the voice of an angel
Especially when I hear you say Nixen
But my ears desire for more

I am sorry.
Yes I agree, your sweetness is intoxicating
And your affirmation gives me strength
But my soul longs for more

For I know you, woman, are just a poor imitation of Him
He, my Creator, is my worth
The One that I choose to pursue
And will make me a man ready to lead you, my woman.

Chan S Jun 22

Broken Crown

Some believe in Feminism...
I personally do Not.
As WomanHood is the Truest way to be
In order to Repair Our Broken Society.

Dare...Not hide your Woman, in this man driven world.   
For We are the Balance that's needed!
Our hearts have Not been Broken
And Far from being Defeated.

True...We may have forgotten that little Girl
Who's Always been Shining Bright
Who's Always been in our hearts
Who's Always been ready & willing

To Fight...Not to fight your darling Sister
Not to kick her while she's down
But to Be There when she needs you
To fix her Broken Crown

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit or send a letter to Creative Commons, PO Box 1866, Mountain View, CA 94042, USA.
Ormond Jun 22

She speaks in tongues and earthwards—
Angels fall listening how to know divinity
From lips that open and close as do tides
Slip, blooming with the face of the moon.

She walks in airs of splendour and light—
Shoulders kin, her child riding on a beam
Vanquishing the sun with celebrated night
Set in reflection on lake waters, little moon.

Alexa Rose Jun 8

Have my rivers began flowing?
Is my hair finally growing?
The sharks are blood-thirsty.
Forgive me, but is my womanhood showing?
Is it only natural for them to prey on me when their thirst needs quenching?
Their tendencies are dangerous,
They can kill with a look.
When their finished, they leave you for dead.
After using every trick in the book.
They leave you for the next and the next after that.
In their eyes, you're just another fish in the sea, they can pound away at.

Keep your head down,
Don't attract attention to yourself.

Be polite, but not too nice to that stranger in a bar in midtown,
He might mistake it for flirtation and try to buy you one off a shelf,
Maybe mix something in a drink.

Don't be a slut and don't be a bore,
And swallow your fear
Of the man on the subway who sized you up and winked.

While the world may stand and jeer,
You must work twice as hard,
Thrice, even, to be thought of
As just as good.

Which is why you ought to keep
Your guard,
And never give an excuse to show Emotions, lest everything you Worked for be written off as
"It's that time of month."

The stiff, sleek material of my pencil skirt
Sticks to me like skin;
I walk like a babe,
A chick,
Only just taking my first stumbling steps.
But my chest is heavy,
Sagging, starving,
New and full and
I didn’t even notice
Until they looked.
Satin, skin, silicone,
I have been taught not
To tell the difference.
Brain, breasts, back bone.
My oversized heels,
I drag along with me;
Nowhere to ask for directions.
Solitary, solo.
Like an abandoned lamb
I am afraid,
I shrink back, hunched, head bowed
Against the wind and the rain that
Lash and numb my skin.
Shrunken, yet constantly growing,
Awkward in my new body.
But I keep going,
I go,
Because I know that
Something warm awaits.

Silicone to silk;
Skin to silk;
Silk to skin.

Anna Mans Mar 27

I first felt her flow as Blue Lady tea steeped on a delicately crafted doily.

Cranberry Orange Scones paired with doll-sized cutlery.

I’d be excused.

A late bloomer,

steeping slowly from the flowering buds of my very own teapot.

Mothers, sisters, friends, daughters together

sharing a Blue winter in that tea shop.

When at fourteen, womanhood gifted

me the first of many


This would spark my wondering why women weren’t known

solely for their strength, rich in resilience,

like the blackest tea.

As Blue Lady steeped steadily from the table to the lady’s room.

Anna Mans

Anna Mans Mar 27

Summer’s time has come and gone
The walls, floorboards release a yawn
With nine months then to recoup, recover
From being a home, just for the summer.

Eloquent memories freshly remain
Of friends who nestled within her frame
A cabin of bunk beds, cubbies, fresh air
Where girls unwound with little a care.

Her crevice now holds a left-behind letter
Whose parchment hardens with winter’s weather
Yet the season’s sleet knows the warmer reflection
Of late night secrets and encouraged imperfection.

Spring has sprung most slowly for some
The evergreens exclaim a harmonious hum
Her wooden steps defrost, and patiently await
The coming of campers to the cardinal state.

Fall, winter, and spring all pass
Warm rays have woken the mountains at last
Each cabin’s frame stands taller, erect
While girls, all ages, reconnect.

Anna Mans

naxiai Mar 27

Our sweet mother, taken away so soon -
gasping for breath as the heavy weight of perfection sat on her chest.
Even in death, she is perfect -
used to her full potential by many men seeking warmth but not love.

No, never love.

These men nestled inside her and made her full - full of life but not the kind that makes you love yourself when looking in the mirror.
The type of life they filled her up with was the kind that nearly killed her in the deliver room - crying out as she was ripped apart and her child was taken by strange hands. Hands of men.

These men fucked her and fucked her and fucked her until the last drop of life she had left disappeared from her eyes.
These men are the ones who look into her coffin and murmur, she was so beautiful.
So perfect.

She died knowing she was not beautiful, could never be beautiful. Beautiful was a word uttered from men's dirty mouths, a word that had been tainted unknowingly.

She died gasping for breath, needing to say those words before she left this world. Needing to say it, needing to say it, needing to say it...
I am not beautiful.

Here lies love,
our mother who will never be beautiful or perfect for as long as I am breathing in this world.
Here lies death,
our real mother who was always more than beautiful. More than perfect.

There's not a single word to describe what she really was. But never beautiful.
No, never perfect.

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