So the word "FEMINISM"
I like what you stand for
I don't like your -ism.
I don't like your exclusivity
I don't like how
The very nature of you, dear dear word,
The innate nature of you
That it is only women
Who are part of this
Well. The dance, my dear word,
Is not strictly feminine
The fight Is not
The inequality is felt
By both "sides" (if there are sides)
masculine AND feminine
You, my sweet, powerful, enchantress-of-word, who gave our mothers
motive and voice,
Have moved us into our present.
For all we know
You helped give gentle rise to
Who wished to move into the light
You taught us,
both men and women
That it's ok
But now, we are in the present
That you birthed
And we need new words
To hold us ALL now
For we are not so much
Ruled by our sex
As we are
By our spirits
And our spirits are housed
In these bodies
And these bodies now
Identify with pink as man
Or trucks as woman
And, so, dear sweet, tired word, stay your values but rest your bones.
Teach us now
The power of the words
And we will make you proud.
A Woman’s Bath
This woman’s bath of mine
A self-inflicted Lulluby
A chance to L E T G O
In a womb of our Creation
Your bath is hot fluid forgiveness
the body’s ease
A bath is a replication of your
Love, well wishes, and peace
For their daughters
X forever back
And on we truly LIVE
Beyond our mother's hot warm wet bath.
CIVIL WHORE PAINT
The girl had had enough.
The fighting; clawing her way out from behind a face of grasping perfection. Her body was something that was worshiped and criticized till there was nothing left to worship.
So she became addicted to the criticism because in it, she was reminded of the glory days of adoration.
But she was fucking tired.
She had been fighting to know herself since her birth, but constantly fought against the current of sandpaper that claimed it existed to make her smooth, but really it just stung, and she worried about the scars it would leave.
She had been battling with the scrutiny, the rulings over her body; her wages; her cellulite; the bridge of her nose, her nipples, and whether they were dinner-plate sized or tight and perky (this was preferred). So much war around her that she didn’t know what to fight anymore:
Others or Herself.
So she became very quiet. She put her face on, and bled in silence.
She kept telling herself that she was not a whore...a silly thing to employ as consolation when she knew herself to be a Lamb. She developed ways to cope, ways to appease; ways to manipulate from behind her beautiful facade, for she was not allowed to have it out on the battlefield; some might call it kind of sexy, maniacal crazy.
But beneath the god-damned rules, and below her raging hormones, and the drama, and the urge to pull away, which she dutifully resisted, no one could touch her. No one could claim their right to her skin and mind, and in the quiet hours of the night, she knew this to be truth.
So she woke up, and she rose from the trenches of her soft bed, and she put her face on:
her face paint:
her war paint:
her “whore” paint,
as some might call it, their eyes squinting in slits of judgement.
Her battle, she knew, was one that existed outside, but her blade, and white flag, and ammo only existed inside herself: it was indeed a civil war.
She realized her only job was to know when to fight, and when to put her hand up, never in surrender, but in dismissive mockery. She would take back what little of herself that she had, and she would fight for it.
So she looked her opponents straight into the eyes (O so many eyes), and whispered these words: "nanny nanny boo boo."
The Siren's Choice
The Siren is many things. Sort of like the tide She never meant to harm.
But she is she and she
Came into the world above with legs, with curious soft tissues Inside, laying eggs
But water is as water does and water
Rises and rose around her Pushing on her lungs Pulling on her spine Speaking many tongues
And confusion is confusing and confusion
Pulled her under and sink she finally did and for a minute her eyelids closed their lids
But living is what living is and life
Would not let her die or let her live So of her floundering pruny limbs
Two, she decided, would become A pair of fins
If you voice your opinion, people will fight you and people will listen to you. Be prepared for both, and remember that neither matter if you're voicing your clearest truth, for you'll be tasting the ozone; you'll be feeling all the unsprouted seeds' potential boom beneath your feet; and you will know your worth.
Don’t fall in love with my genitals
Fall in love with my jokes: because the greatest joke is that generally we all have genitals
Don’t fall in love with my genius
Fall in love with my mistakes: the ones you hate and the ones that worked out accidentally
Don’t fall in love with my benign smile
Fall in love with the world that gave me that smile and be wary when it’s upside down
Don’t fall in love with my beauty
Fall in love with my changes: with the tides of water and blood in this hot, living thing of me
Don’t fall in love with me externally
Fall in love with the ghosts that operate my insides mysteriously and made these acne scars
Don’t fall in love at me; fall in love through me
Fall in love with my humanness, and baby, you’ll fall in love with yours
(written by the river, and me sitting next to it, swatting mosquitos)