Posts

Showing posts from January, 2018

Silently Disgusted 

Image
“I am in a cage of my own making. I held my silence the way I do my disgust and watched them shut the doors on my dreams. Simple dreams of a world where I can wear no bra, because truly I do not need the support, and have no fear of harassment. It’s a silly dream really because all I wish for are nights where I don’t grip my keys like they are a lifeline as I make a beeline for my car in a deserted parking lot. I dream that the measure of my worth will not stem from the erotic dreams my body might create and instead be based on the sensuality of my intellect. All I want is a world where I have a voice to voice my disgust about a cage they said was for my own safety.”  I’m disgusted with the patriarchy. I’m disgusted with my fear. I’m disgusted with my silence. And so I break it. Speak however you need to. Painting or poetry. Screaming or sculpture. Just speak. 

Twinkle Twinkle 

Image
“THINGS WE DON’T TALK ABOUT” There’s days I can feel it coming. It’s a shiver down my spine, goosebumps on my arms. It’s the knowledge that I’m being watched. Stalked. Tracked. And I think because I know it’s coming, I know that it’s waiting for that moment of sudden, expected vulnerability, that I am safe. But it is more patient than I. More aware that the time will come. It always does.  Then there’s days I don’t feel anything at all. There are no shivers, no pleasures, no pains. It hits me like a train and then nothing. Unspeakable pain then stars, blackness, blankness, a void I know I’m supposed to fill. But can’t. Because it’s come. It always does.  Then there’s days like today. It’s eleven o’clock and I can’t drag my sorry ass out of bed. I don’t want to. It seems painfully pointless. The lights too bright. Shut the blinds. Lie back down. Don’t write. Don’t read. Don’t reach out. It’s here. It always is. 

Going Home 

I’ve been AWOL lately. I’ve been a bad poet and an even worse writer. Not because the product is crap but because there is no product. I haven’t burned the midnight oil in months. I haven’t sat in front of the laptop or notebook or a napkin in longer than I care to admit. I’ve starved my Wild Woman because of happiness.  Now I know that sounds strange. So strange in fact that I didn’t recognize what the “issue” was until I was more than halfway through Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ masterpiece, “Woman Who Run With Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype”. I’m happy. I’m changing. And it’s overwhelming. No matter the positive implications it’s effecting my craft negatively. I’ve been too long gone from my home. My soul home. My inner wolf. I’ve starved the beast and now it demands retribution. And this is it. This right here. Me writing and telling the world (what little part of the world cares) that I’m going home.  Please don’t take that too literal. I’m not boarding a plane,