Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Leopards For Mahsa Amini

The children born of Venus break through their bounds,
voices loud,
brave, beautiful roars that echo across the world,
hair tumbling down their backs as they run,
carrying the fates of their younger sisters on their shoulders.

Windows light up as they pass,
faces and fingers press against the glass,
girls are gleeful,
desperate for a glimpse of the leopards as they leap into action.
Claws shimmering and sparkling in the moon’s soft light strike down the weak, whispering shadows that surround the town square.

A man shuffles towards the leopard,
trying to tower above her with his stocky chest and curt voice.
He fails,
falling to the ground as he asks her again to submit,
the certainty of his power begins to crumble with each step the leopard takes,
and surrounded by her sisters,
watched by the ones who will one day be women,
she looks him in the eye and begins to sing.

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

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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