Conditions of Being a Woman
Can our bodies just be a body?
Not one of sexual stimulation.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our weight just be a number?
Not one of skinny or fat.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our hair just be hair?
Not something that defines our gender, occupation, or political values.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our eyes just be eyes?
Not something to make prettier or where to hold back tears.
If they aren't, does that make one less of a woman?
If they are, does that make one a target?
Can our lips just be lips?
Not something to color and plump.
If they aren't, does that make one less of a woman?
If they are, does that make one a target?
Can our skin just be skin?
Not something youthful and smooth.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our breasts just be breasts?
Not something we reshape and hide the nipple.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our hearts just be hearts?
Not something to wear on our sleeve or keep closed off.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our emotional intelligence just be emotional intelligence?
Not something that makes us backyard therapists or a weapon because we know how to hurt back.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can our vaginas just be vaginas?
Not something that has no consent or has to be there.
If it isn’t, does that make one less of a woman?
If it is, does that make one a target?
Can a woman,
Just be a woman?
Just be a womyn?
Just be a womxn?
Just be a femme?
If not, does that make you less of a woman?
If so, does that make you a target?
Depression
I have plans,
in mind.
Struggling,
to do something.
Nothing,
does it for me.
A torture chamber,
I reside in.
Cereal Tears
I drink from here
I thought the taste could bring me back
Somehow closer to you
The sweetness from the milk
Sprinkled with cinnamon tears
It reminds me of you
When you are not here.
Identity Crisis/Process
Who am I?
I want to make it up
The uncertainty of the process,
No image that has to happen.
An open-ended experience
A question
A tangent
A moment in space
One in this time
One out of sync
One of the same or different
None of that
All of that
Some of this
With some of that
Glass Elevator
It carries me through my day.
Oh, but there’s a catch
You can’t see it.
When you reach out for me
Its walls will be felt.
When I reach out for you,
Shards of glass go right through.
I can see you.
You can see me.
This glass elevator is between us,
Tragically.