"How can no one see?" he said softly, almost as a whisper that made her brow rise in confusion. But there was a strange slight relief around the curviness of her lips and in those dark deep blue eyes that seemed to have lit up turning a shade lighter. She exhaled a sigh of relief as though she was glad someone was asking or even talking to her.
"How can no one hear the air carrying the whispers of your cries? How can no one see the merge between the depthful ocean and the mysterious galaxy in your eyes? Does no one feel the sadness leaking out of your pores? The way your smile is never complete, how your cheeks does not swallow your eyes no more. Does no one see your face and say You're a beautiful masterpiece made of all these broken pieces and I want to know more."

Do not get yourself into trouble
I have been told this too many times before
Warned that my clothing
Or lack of
Is enough to justify another person's actions
What I have been told by my mother
What she means
In much simpler words
Is
Don't get *****

My mother's concern is understood
I am 5'1 and do not breathe fire out of my mouth as I would wish to
I am not a master in the art of
Self defense
Only sarcasm
And making myself look pretty enough
To catch the wandering eyes of men
But neither of these
Are invitations
To my body

What my mother is saying
When she says don't get yourself into risky situations
Is don't drink
Because if you do
It then becomes your fault
As if the increase of alcohol
In my blood
Makes me more responsible
For another mans decisions to take what is rightfully mine

What my mother is saying
Is that it is okay to look good
But not good enough
For someone to want you that way
How do i tell her
That ****
Is not about what you look like
Or what you wear
That it is solely
About power

My mother tells me to cover up
Implying that ****
Has something to do with
The appearance of my *******
Or curviness of my hips
Tell me mother
If this is true
Why do millions of girls worldwide
Who are covered head to toe
Get ***** daily
How is it that
They can be fully clothed
Yet still stripped of their dignity
Constantly

To me
The worst part is
That we teach women how to protect
More often
Than we teach men to not touch
Do you know mother
How dangerous it is
To give out these warnings
As a disclaimer

It is a dangerous thing
To play games with blame
Politicians do
A good enough job of it already
Therefore
We do not need our own mothers
To do so as well

What we need
Is for our mothers
To tell their sons
About
Boundaries
And teach them
That consent
Is not written
Into the lines
Of shown skin
On a woman's body

What we need mother
Is to stop the defense
Of actions that have no predecessor
What we truly need
Is to stop telling our daughters
That they are responsible
For preventing the doings
Of someone who was never taught
That no means no.

There is too much
hardness in this life
too many knife-straight
utilitarian edges
offering  too little
pleasure for the eye
and no comfort for the soul

Here and there
a bit of curviness
helps with balance
--***** of chair back
pleat of drapery
a table that won't
bruise your hip
as you stumble
around in the dark.
Not much but
better than nothing.

The poet, the painter
and makers of music
have a better handle
on soft creations
that wrap themselves
around you like
wooly comforters
or crack your heart
wide open with beauty
like being impaled by
shards of broken glass.

Eileen Auger
12/30/06