#feministpoetry
My body was a sacred mountain —
no one climbed.
You did,
with slippers on.
You mistook my sacredness
for solitude.
You stitched my tongue
with fear.
The blood inside me
broke past its clot —
a sudden river
fighting its threat.
And when I left,
I swore:
No hand would wander
here
uninvited.
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 6:20 AM UTC
I’m sorry, sister.
I watched as mama
took your hand
and placed it in his.
There was nothing I could do.
The same fate waits for me—
bound like roots,
tethered to a tree.
I am a broken calabash,
my dreams scattered
like soil after harvest.
Does a girl need a man
to make her dreams come true?
A girl is a matchstick—
she can spark alone.
Yet without marriage,
society calls her
a violin without strings.
She traded me like sand
for a gem.
I wept
as I held his arm.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 2:13 PM UTC
I am either the mother or the ***** —
Never anything in-between
each new relationship with men
corrodes with the realization of what I am to them.
The fabricated fantasy to own me.
through desire or maternal care
never the lover, friend or equal
In order to see me as such —
they would need to see me as I am, flesh and blood.
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 12:19 PM UTC
This quill is not a chalice of charm
It bleeds in glyphs, not glances.
The Flameborne speaks in veiled runes,
Not in the language of advances.
The verses shared were not a vow,
Nor a veil to woo the dusk.
They were relics of ritual rage,
Not perfume, not poetic musk.
The Seeker came with restless tongue,
Mistaking scroll for siren’s song.
But the Flameborne crafts with carticity
Not for longing, not for wrong.
Threefold he asked of suitor’s trace,
As if silence owed him lore.
But the Flameborne owes no mortal
The map to her inner shore.
He forged a shrine in ten swift clicks,
To chase the echo of her flame.
But she is not a digital deity,
Nor a muse for mortal claim.
He slept in peace, then dared to say
Her words had lulled his ache.
But she is thunder, not a lullaby
A stormscroll, not keepsake.
He said he’d miss the Flameborne’s voice,
As if her breath was his to bind.
But she is not a borrowed breeze
She is tempest, not entwined.
The Flameborne writes with veined rebuke,
Her lexicon is wrath and grace.
She does not flirt she forges flame.
She does not yield she claims her space.
So let this scroll be sealed in fire,
A ceremonial, sacred brand:
The Flameborne is not yours to court
She is boundary, not demand.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 11:37 PM UTC
Through crepuscular trials and vigil’s toll,
The Scion carved fate in aureate scroll.
A child of lore, tempestuous flame,
Her saga inked in stars unnamed.
The cosmos murmured, “Ascend, ignite,”
She rose a cipher of scholar’s rite.
Each tome she turned, each theorem sown,
Her fervor flared, her soul full-grown.
She reached the verge of promised grace,
With hands unsoiled, with measured pace.
One breath away from laureled claim,
A diadem carved in honor’s name.
But serpents hissed in cloistered shade,
A pact was penned, her path mislaid.
Not vanquished by flaw nor faltered might,
But by the veiled who veil the light.
A patriarch’s whisper, a tyrant’s jest,
Her name expunged, her truth suppressed.
No trumpet blared, no gavel fell,
Just silence deep a stolen spell.
The Scion did not wail nor rend the air,
She stood unmade in just despair.
A revenant of dreams once crowned,
Now wandering where wrongs resound.
“How does one breathe when justice chokes?
When merit drowns in gilded cloaks?
If dreams can die by silent scheme,
Then power mocks, and truth blasphemes.”
Her fate entombed in hush profound,
Yet echoes rise from burial ground.
For wings once clipped shall cleave the sky,
And justice knock where lies deny.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 8:54 PM UTC
Courage wears a pleated mini skirt
Red tights and Mary Janes
Gold shadow in the corner of her eye
Courage wears a **** bra
Three shades darker from two weeks worth of sweat
A silken ivory blouse, first two—
No— first three buttons undone
Scrubs
Courage wears overalls
Rolled at the ankles
A nose ring
Butterfly clip and an old locket
Courage wears men’s boxers on a female body
Dr. Marten’s with the chunky soles
Carabiner on the (right) belt loop
And her grandfather’s leather belt
Courage wears gold hoops and a silver watch
White after Labor Day and off-white on her wedding day
A lab coat in the morning, a breast pump at lunch, and a little black dress later tonight
Courage wears a uniform
Hand-me-downs and Goodwill sneakers
Cheap lingerie and slutty stilettos
An orange jumpsuit
Camouflage
Courage wears a binder to church
A burqa to school
Box braids in the office
Courage wears the pants
Wears the shoe when it fits
Wears her heart on her sleeve
Wears pain like a badge of honor
Courage wears a kitten heel
Even when it goes out of style
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
You assign to us the connotation of fragility–
“a woman is like a flower.”
Entangled in your own bias,
you see a flower for its petals only,
so blinded by their delicacy,
you forget the blazing pistil.
What if I told you a flower
is no different than a loaded gun?
Sep 9, 2024
Sep 9, 2024 at 4:52 PM UTC
If I had to choose between being
alone in a forest with a bear
or being alone in a forest
with a man, I would choose
the bear. See, you can reason
with a hungry bear; you cannot
reason with a hungry man.
Apr 29, 2024
Apr 29, 2024 at 7:13 PM UTC
Call me hysterical all you want.
Some of the greatest artists were
[are] hysterical women.
Jan 17, 2024
Jan 17, 2024 at 7:19 PM UTC
Bumble, I find it quite ironic
that your mascot is a Bee.
Not only have you chosen a mascot
who belongs to a dying species
(good men are also a dying species,
I'm afraid) but you have chosen a mascot
who is known to sting.
Tell me, Bumble, if I am the one
who is being stung does that mean
he will drop dead immediately
after stinging me?
Or is he just a No-Good-Wasp
that will never be held
accountable for his
mistreatment of women?
Jan 17, 2024
Jan 17, 2024 at 6:57 PM UTC
When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.
She haunts me.
“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]
“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]
“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 6:35 PM UTC
Maybe he didn’t burn you
in the literal sense;
but gaslighting is its own
misogynistic brand of conflagration.
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
Men love a good Femme Fatale.
But they do not love an ugly Femme Fatale—
So they plucked her naked,
gave her a nose job, and called her
a “mermaid” instead
{Siren}
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 6:14 PM UTC
Paternal mountains holding
knees as I a brook
laugh and gurgle
without stopping.
Crown sliding
off tousled hair
I cry at broken
dolls that make me sad
and get presents
smelling faintly of
sticky, warm Azaleas.
I groan.
I moan as I tear small ivory chunks with sickening thuds,
l grasp the pulsating pulp.
With lower lashes, I offer
to the ravenous fire that consumes in its unquenchable desire that destroys and laughs, that baits me to bark.
Ah! Look at the night
dressed up like a *****
No is three letters, yes is two.
Every man a tattoo artist branding his initials for free.
Tell me, does purple look striking against melanin attire?
I get paper cuts
from words slicing off penetrating tongues
and I scream, muffled inside a dream.
Groping at flecks of sandy sunshine, waiting to be
Exhumed.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 6:50 PM UTC
The absolutely radical,
Mind boggling idea of being accepted.
-A fantasy served with insecurity
On the side, stained
With the lipstick you only wear
On third dates, the idea of
what love "should feel like"
Bubbling below the skin
Until you get blisters and boils,
sick and heady but starry eyed.
Ignoring the naysayers,
Oh so what if sleeping beauty
Gets roofied here.
The potential to get shattered,
Identity mutilated beyond recognition
Is, after all, a small price to pay
If you finally get to.. Belong.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 6:34 PM UTC
men, they spend hours, days, weeks
seeking, searching, running
to the Promised Land.
their bones, cracking from strain
their bodies, weakening
as their humours run dry.
all in the hope of finding roses,
delicate in petal, soft to the touch
this is where they will lay their heads.
but what if Mother Nature were to rear
her wiry head?
leaving weeds, un-ripped from their homes.
i suppose the weaker men would get lost,
unaccustomed to rich thorn,
glorious thickets, never ending forests
our great Mother, she laughs
as they trip and fall,
tears falling, rendering our grass fertile
they’ve made their bed now, she supposes
now they must lie in it.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 12:58 PM UTC