Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Women

The bitter bite of being underestimated,

again,

as if I am not sewn together,

from the ones

the world tried to tear apart.

pexels-photo-556658

Today,

I am not the girl I was.

I am patched up,

with pieces,

a collage of Queens.

Their bones are fused,

with my refusal to be silent,

we are together,

awake,

unlocked,

all over the world.

We graffiti the streets,

with pictures of promise,

daring to be the women we needed.

pexels-photo-556665

They told my Grandma,

“Find a nice man,

have a baby,

get a new kitchen,

if you behave yourself.”

They told my Grandma to change herself.

She changed the world,

instead.

So will I.

pexels-photo-205000


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Monster Truck

Sixty seven year old strange man,

in my room.

knelt by my womb,

trying to crawl inside,

as if I am a monster truck,

and there are tools

to destroy the city,

to save some cells,

and keep me in one,

if I resist.

My sister has come,

from England,

screams,

for the future, of her green and pleasant land,

but my present is her past,

as the sixty seven year old strange man,

steers me through the streets,

and Arlene sneers at my shame,

before going back to her well heated scandals.

I am not a slut.

I am not an incubator.

I am not a slave.

I am not asleep,

but every woman,

in her proud, painful shirt,

screams,

“This is what a feminist looks like”,

without looking my way.



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