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jigyasa Jun 2018
and somewhere
amidst the daydreams
lost in flow
I evolved from child to woman
Sakshi Shaw May 2018
We are not maps
leading to defects
or voices made of silence

Our color is not period
Our emotions are not a pinwheel

We have the womb
that creates generations

We are your creators
We are human
We are WOMAN
BR May 2018
Turn. Tug. Pull at my dress where the buttons came undone in the scuffle. Point to the clavacle, a little blue. Trace it with your cruel fingers. Talk like it was your right to take my body into your mind and do what all red blooded men want to do. What they're made to do. I wanted it. Draw the strands of my hair into your nostrils, and close your eyes in what will look like a prayer for chastity, to the very blind. You enjoyed the way it felt to undress me with your words in front of everyone, and nobody stopped you.
I bet it felt powerful.
I bet it felt like freedom, to flick your tongue to taste the air right out there in the open.

You are not free.
And, forgive me,
But I do not believe that men were made to pull off the buttons. I do not believe they were born to take our bodies into their minds, or into the back seat of their cars, or behind dumpsters, or into empty laundry rooms where no one can hear the screaming.

Forgive me,
but it's *******.

Men do not have to be cowards, or dogs, or drunkards, or the way it feels to have the pillows ripped out from under your head for saying "please, not tonight."

You are not free.

(But you could be.)

My sisters and I were placed on the front step in front of the house, where red blooded bodies were begging for red blood, and ***, and somebody's virtue to ravage.
They said, "take our daughters."

It was our innocence which made us the perfect consolation prize. A tidy meal to tide them over.

The truth is coming like a sword.
The truth is coming like water.
The truth is coming like a sword.
The truth is coming like fire.
Hillary B Apr 2018
on a typical day
I'm in touch with my body
completely self-aware
yet my period catches me off guard
sneaks up unannounced
stays for too long  
causes debilitating pain
destroys my clothing
and in turn my day

worst of all
it makes me question
if my body even belongs to me
Meera Apr 2018
Shiva- the destroyer
The plethora of power
The synonym of destruction
He- who can never be defeated
The one who can demolish the world by mere opening of his third eye
Halahal- the most vicious poison rests in whose throat
Words are never enough to define whose eminence
The greatest manifestation of divine
The eternal and the auspicious
That shiva- the ultimate god
Is a mere corpse without ‘Shakti’

She gives strength to the ‘supreme being’
And they say women are weak.....
Shakti- the female or generative principle; wife of Siva; Meaning sacred force, power or energy, it represents the Hindu concept or personification of the divine feminine aspect, sometimes referred to as 'The Divine Mother'. Shakti represents the active, dynamic principles of feminine power. In Shaktism, Shakti is worshiped as the Supreme Being. However, in other Hindu traditions, Shakti embodies the active energy and power of male deities
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
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