You Are More Than A Woman
You are legs, voices, attitudes of those who came before you and of the babies you will one day bear.
You are legs, voices, attitudes of those who came before you and of the babies you will one day bear.
I run my fingertips
over the soft skin
between my ribs
and hip. The divot,
the place where your hands
touched.
A woman on the corner stood on a small wooden box. Her hair was pulled back and she held a megaphone to her lips, screaming, ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. Look at you! Look at what you’re wearing. You’re all going to Hell. ALL OF YOU!”
Words are terrifying because they can both create and destroy. Because I cling so desperately to them.
I am a woman
but I will not flit between
delicate and empowered.
I will not grace the vase
on your bedside table.
Having to explain, for the 20802375th time, that Yes, I actually enjoy this.
“A good story is a worm-stick,” my professor says.
It should make you glow. It should make you smile. It should make you doodle hearts in the corners of your term papers or carve initials into the side of your desk.
Thank you for those full-body, lift-me-in-the-air type of hugs that changed my entire day around, for always wiping my tears (sloppily, but in the kindest way you could).
Not a beauty anymore.