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,
alone,
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.


“What is a woman?” SHUT YOUR VAGINA AND LISTEN TO HIM BITCH.

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, Writing

Shark Week

Is my life over?
Is this all there is?
Am I lost in the thunder,
thrown into dismay as the world crashes to pieces around me,
or am I just hormonal?

Sometimes,
I wish that I had been a braver babydoll three years ago,
and stepped into the sweetness of the sun,
but there was so much to distract me,
so I could forget the scorch of silence as I turned my key and stepped into an empty house,
instead of the sun.
Is this another one of those times where I am asking difficult questions of my soul,
or am I just menstruating, and assigning too much meaning to what it does to my body?

I have a lot to cry about.
Failed romances,
failed remodelling of my life,
tension headaches and the typical tyranny of time,
and the ever present reminder that it slips away from me, and my body clock with every trip around the sun (that I failed to just jump into).

It is a blue Christmas, in July.
I am eating ice cream and buying myself gifts that I cannot afford,
because my body is crying at my failure to make a mother out of her,
or a wife,
or just something to be proud of,
and she stared with such affection at the sun that I had no choice but to distract her with something shiny.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Adventures Of Action Woman and Emotionally Overwhelmed Poet Barbie

She dressed like every day would be an adventure.
Shiny, sensible shoes, fit for running from doom,
and a jacket, with lots of pockets,
that always ended up carrying my lip balm and sovereign blues.
I used to wake like the slow, daunted dawn of Winter,
but with her,
I would rise before the summer sun had had her breakfast,
planning for adventures,
in the most unprepared kind of way,
because adventures are hard to have in petticoats and primark pumps.
She was braver than me,
bruised, grassy knees and calves carved by treadmills,
that I wrote sonnets about from the safety of a picnic blanket,
under the shade of the small leaved lime that had spread her wings over us.
All kinds of adventures,
parenting,
paranormal investigations,
paragliding (I watched that from the beach, but it still counts),
with my girl, who was ready for anything,
including all the affection I had saved up all my life,
looking for the right recipient.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Do Not Want Equality. I Want Revenge.

I thought I’d write a flowery phrase about the women that inspire me,
all the aspirations they dared me to dream,
the ways I followed the paths they placed before me,
but,
no.
I won’t betray them by being docile in the face of disrespect.

It is a day for women,
and I tire of men doing the minimum.
I don’t want equality,
I want revenge.
I don’t want your tweets of solidarity,
I want your “hard earned” money.
I don’t want your kudos,
I want your unearned confidence.
I don’t want you to ask me how to help,
I want you to listen to what my mother said, and my grandmother too, because generations of women have already told you, and I will not stand here and tell you again.

Listen.

I don’t want equality,
I want revenge.
I want reparations.
I want repercussions.
I want to walk down the street without an animal howling at me from his boy racer car.
I want the wolves behind bars before they do irreparable harm to the women who report and report until their throats are sore, to laughing, lazy police officers.
I want my space to be sacred, never caught in the shadow of someone I have already told “No”,
but it never comes.

I am told that tweets of solidarity are the same thing as true equality.
Men can’t do more, despite telling me that “there’s so much more to do”,
I don’t want you to salute me, or shout me out.
I don’t want you to give me your “thoughts” and your sympathy.
It’s meaningless.
You think you’ve done enough, but I promise that you haven’t.
You have done nothing to earn the right to give me “solidarity”.
It is never going to be enough,
so I do not want equality,
I want revenge.