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Sky Apr 2018
'brownstone of my body,' i had declared
privately my first confession. somewhat
intimate. and as my voice quivered like
name-tags on teenage trees, i hoped you
found me endearing in your brazen ways.
i come off as naive, to your unblinking gaze:
passive, unimpressed, and mostly unfazed.
my small pink feet are soft and raw against
your weathered knees. and you say my belly
is too mellow with its paper-doll creases, flesh
too easily torn by your cut-brick corners, face
too childish for your middle-aged games. but
my thighs are like your alleys, leave no space
for nonsense, is my whole as is my part, if you
can love me for my thighs, i will be content with
something along the lines of 'my brownstone
loves me for my thighs, my thighs
have no alleys and i would have it no other way' and
I would ask no question as the blossom of my tender body is
pinched between your fingers and rolled into a
tiny pink cigar, stamped out before ever being lit.
and i would never ask, is this (ever) womanhood?
draft version
c Apr 2018
I danced all night in the dress He gave us--

Pins stuck in my hips
Zippered through my spine
I even painted my lips
To match His werewolf eyes

"You're beautiful baby"
He takes in a mouthful
I slink at the waist
Just how He likes me

"Let's get you a drink"
And I feel the sway
He bathes me in blood
He takes me away

Tonight I'll be His **** nurse
His seasoned strip steak thigh
His Only 18
His innocent eyes

Tomorrow I will lick the wounds
And pray He'll call again
Tomorrow marks another night
Of dancing in His dress

--
c
Inspired by PJ Harvey's song "Dress"
Emily Rowe Apr 2018
when i got my first period,
i was thrilled.
marked with the crimson stroke of womanhood,
i was no longer a little girl.
i was no longer too young
to be a part of the whispered gossip filled conversations
of the women in my family.
my sister and i could share boxes of pads and tampons,
bottles of advil and naproxen.
i was no longer too young to go bra shopping,
too young to understand.
i could read Teen Vogue and relate to every word,
i was a woman.

no one told me that it was now okay.
it was now okay for men to comment
on my new chest.
it was now okay for boys to yell their
tube sock dreams of my wider hips.
no longer protected by the shield of childhood,
it was now okay.

while i experienced many new things
after that first visit from Aunt Flow,
i also began to feel things i had not felt before.
an unexplained, unwarranted hatred of
the body i lived in,
my burden of anxiety heightened
with raging hormones in my blood,
mood swings worsening the monster
living under my brain named depression.
red spots on my face that boys liked to make fun of
as if their faces were not acne warzones themselves.
another growth spurt, as if i was not already towering
above the other girls in my class.

“don’t let anyone see your pad when you go to the bathroom to change,”
my friend whispered to me at school,
“it’s inappropriate.”
“don’t say period in front of boys,
it’s gross.”
“don’t talk about puberty,
boys think it’s unattractive.”

suddenly i realized that my body
was not for myself
and it was my responsibility
to act like I didn’t feel like there were
earthquakes in my ******.
it was my responsibility to hide my new body,
because my education was not as important
as the pervy boys in my math class.
it was my responsibility to not bleed through
my new jeans,
and miss class because i’m crying in the
bathroom as i call my mother to bring me
a change of clothes.

because being a woman is unattractive,
but when she’s half naked on the cover of ******* we like it.
because spreading your legs open for a ******
is gross,
but when a man is in between them it’s hot.
because a woman’s body was never for women,
unless it’s ****** and crampy,
then we don’t want to hear about it.

i am here to say that Womanhood is for women.
i am here to say that young girls should take pride
in their new bodies.
your body is yours and no one else’s
and you should never feel ashamed of it.
you should never feel shame
when the crimson wave comes.
girl diffused Mar 2018
Woman,
strictly
be
a

r
i
v
e
r
unto
your
self.
a/n: As it snows heavily here, and I'm cocooned in drifting flurries of white, this just rooted itself inside of my mind. It wouldn't let go. It demanded to be written. I think those are the most sincere types of writing.
Merry Mar 2018
Red-Haired Woman I admire her
Red-Haired Woman got a mind of her own
But Red-Haired Woman got to learn to mind her own
Not everyone takes as kindly to your words
As kindly as I do
And even then, I raise doubt
Just like I raise the ace of cups

Pale as a vampire
Dressed in inappropriate funeral attire
She’s a killer queen
But not in practice
She keeps her Passion Pop
In her pretty hands with charcoal claws
Strangling the bottle’s neck
Whilst she drinks the nectar

She wears art decade black sunglasses
I see the world
Through rosy kaleidoscope lenses
I dream of marmalade skies
She speaks of vicious lies
Which might be true
But I have not a clue
I very much hope
That they are not

Because whilst I may take her words kindly
Without the slightest hint of salt
I trust that she is forever sweet
For her eyes glitter with justice
As she tells me these things
About the life I’ve led
Next to hers

I don’t want them to be true
Because if they are true
It would mean
I have not led
A life of marmalade skies
And of marshmallow pies
It would mean
That the roses I see
Are thorned after all
That the lilies I see
Adorn the funeral
Are toxic after all

Red-Haired Woman, I admire you
You're strong
And courageous
With flaming red hair
And eyes of sapphire blue
With spidery lashes of thick mascara
You do not die without a challenge
The world would be worse without you
And for that, I thank you
Liesl Mar 2018
A tiny pill, less than fingernail-size
Washed down with water each day.
You’d think nothing of it.
It’s just like clockwork.

It does its job.
You marvel at science
And you marvel at being a woman
Just how does your body do it?
You wonder each day.

Now there is less blood
But more bleeding
Less pain
But more suffering

As the months pass you start to realise something.
You’d rather tear out your own hair
Than tear out your own ******
You’d rather be drenched with blood
Than drenched with sadness and anger

Once a month you wish you were dead.
The pill laughs.
Once a month you cry yourself to sleep
Just because somebody looked at you funny.

This tiny tiny thing
Smaller than your fingernail
May be making it easier to be a woman
But it’s making it harder to be you.
I recently discovered that my contraceptive pill had messed with my hormones to the point where I had completely changed as a person. I was very anxious and low, and all because of a tiny pill that I'd put a lot of my faith in. This is my disjointed attempt at conveying the pain I endured.
Merry Mar 2018
She's the only woman I know
Who could wear a sheer net shirt,
Bra and ******* exposed,
To a small town funeral
She's the only woman I know
Who flicks cigarette ash
Off of a no smoking sign
Embedded on a wire table at a wake
Name changed to protect the identity of the person this about
Kore Mar 2018
crowned with lighting,
she is a tempest of a woman -
wrapped in the storm that gave way to
her creation

thunder is her call,
her name,
her warning,
her crown is her weapon of choice

(there is nothing more powerful
than a woman who knows what she wants)

nails tipped in quicksilver,
her voice is thunder,
her eyes are stars hand-picked
by the goddess herself,
her hair is the deepest black
of the storm from which she burst forth

(there is nothing more powerful
than a woman who knows her worth)

she is a woman wrapped in a storm,
crowned with lightning,
wearing her refusal to apologize
in the ferocity of her smile

(there is nothing more powerful
than a woman who knows what she wants)
Recently edited, I wrote this poem a few years ago for my closest friend and it's remained one of my favorite works since then.
Merry Feb 2018
Today I saw a girl
She was walking
On a residential street
She looked out of place
But I knew her face
It’s a small town
So, of course, I knew her face
Of course, I know her name
She’s the Jones girl

She’s a teenager
I don’t know what she was doing
Probably doing whatever it is
Teenagers do
On a Sunday afternoon
In a small town

Platinum white hair
Piercings up her ear
Future up in the air
Scene and emo wristbands
And a graphic tee
Probably not from Hot Topic
Because Hot Topic ain’t so hot here

Here’s the thing
She’d be the It Girl
If it weren’t for her acne
If it weren’t for her height
If it weren’t for her weight
If it weren’t for her interests
If it weren’t for her hobbies
If it weren’t for everything about her
But her name
And her age

She deserves better
I don’t like her
Not personally
But she does deserve better
She deserves the city streets
There, and only there,
Can she can be who she wants to be

And if she can’t?
Then there’s no place I want to be
Not one at all
Because I want to be
Where she,
Where we all can be,
Who we want to be
Names changed to protect the identity of this poem's subject.
Keerthi Kishor Feb 2018
Who and What decides the worth of a Woman?
The clothes she wears?
The oaths she swears?
The roles she bears?
The circumstances she dares?
The lipstick she adores?
The men she abhors?
The challenges she faces?
The life goals she aces?
The things she's bid adieu?
Her untampered list of rue?
Me or You?
"The answer is quite simple- Nothing and Nobody."
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