Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

What Is A Woman?

Luckily for me, and my lackadaisical little woman brain,
there will always be men, making sweeping statements on my behalf.
Battering down my kitchen door to bellow definitions and debating with shadows,
while I give a bemused, indifferent glance,
glazing over as the pasta boils over, and I pray for some peace and quiet.

Luckily for me,
the lads are on the case.
They are standing up for “their women”,
of which I am apparently one,
despite being rather certain that I retained ownership of myself.
Those same lads who can’t locate key parts of a woman are here to holler about what a woman is,
to a woman,
who knows where everything is,
and knows what everything is,
but they’re using their serious, sincere voices,
tutting at me, though I haven’t said a word,
so I think this is something they’d like my attention for.

I just… don’t care.
I have so much more to do.
I don’t have time to get into a row with an uninvited guest,
or time to pander to his need to feel important.
I’ve got pasta that needs cooking,
a movie that needs watching,
and he’s just… not that interesting.

Where were these men, with all their concerns and condescending chat when I needed them?
Why do they look away in embarrassment when their feral friends follow me down the street?
Why do they waste my time, waxing lyrical about how “sorry” they are for their gender instead of sorting out their siblings?
Why, after centuries of patriarchy have they decided that they’d like to “save” me?
Why do they assume that they are capable of saving me?

What is a man?
Beyond late, boring and surplus to requirements?
Completely incapable,
completely intolerable.
Loud for the sake of being loud,
and just eye roll inducingly dull.

Is THIS your king?
A man in my Twitter mentions,
at the big age of 45,
diving into arguments with an actual woman about who she is, and why he’s the authority on it?
My dude,
don’t do this to yourself.

Anyway, back to me.
In case you wondered,
I was in the kitchen of my own volition,
peacefully cooking my pasta,
dreaming of dinner and a movie,
but a man has deemed himself ever so important,
despite having no place in my palace of solitude.
Some dude has something to say,
not something to ask,
but something to say.
He will scream something that he phrases as a question,
but it is really a statement.

He asks,
“What is a woman?”
but what he means is,
“I don’t like how women have handled this conversation, so it’s time that they listened to me.”

“What is a woman?” He pecks the question into the air like a furious, fevered bird.

“What is a woman?” He wants an answer, but he only wants it from his own mouth, so shut up and let him FINALLY have a chance to talk.


A woman is someone that men talk at, not to.
A woman is someone that men call incapable after incapacitating her.
A woman is something that men want to protect from everyone but themselves.

A woman is not the concern of a man.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Thoughts On Writing, Writing

An Open Letter To Male Poets

Hello clever man,

who towers, only in height,

and has the same syndrome as boys who buy big cars.

There’s something you should know.

I’ll say it slow,

so I don’t get overwhelmed,

because you know we women are not complex,

so quiet,

so one dimensional,

(feel free to mention all the books you’ve read,

that you’d like to recommend to me,

because I can assure you,

I am dying to hear all about it)

Volume isn’t a talent.

I’m sorry.

Would you like me to be louder?






(Period. Just in case the rumours are true, and you’ll faint in fury at the very mention of the monthly menstrual magic.)

Volume isn’t a talent,

but you manspread over women,

boring and berating,


as if yours is the only brain that ever worked.

For God’s sake,

if this doesn’t resonate,

don’t email me,

don’t leave me a long,

drawn out comment that won’t make it past my spam filter,

because I don’t care to hear some “nOt AlL mAlE pOeTs!!1!” mess,

when it’s enough,

that I,

and others have echoed these thoughts.

Nobody asked,

but you’re always the loudest answer,

to a question that doesn’t exist,

pretending not to understand why people are sick of the sound of your droll drones,

about how you’re saying things,

within things,

and some people just don’t understand

that your poetry is so complex

so profound

and somehow, can always be mansplained on top of ours.

You’re not a misogynist,

you’re just cleverer than us,



(Wrong, but that really goes without saying)

Volume is not a talent,

but it’s all you have to give,

which is adorable.

You’re so adorable,

I whisper, down to your bridge,

where three goats,

who fell for your shit,

roll their eyes,

for the hundredth time,

writing an escape plan,

on the back of yet another stanza you wrote,

about how you’re so complex,

in a way that nobody else has ever been,

and nobody else can understand.

I’ve seen identical verses,

from identical dudebros,

all over social media,

but I wouldn’t want to give you a complex,

so I smile,

and I say,

you’re so complex,

I don’t understand you,

I’ve never met anyone like you,

and for a few minutes,

you are in my deadlights,

mouth open,

ego edging out,

and I smile,

watching the goats make a break for it,

behind your back.