I guess this should be called the complexity of the feminine.
For the feminine herself can be so complex.
Some being intersex, woven with beads from both decks.
Sometimes I like to wear a dress, sometimes I’m okay with baggy sweats.
I’ve been up all night researching, doing some reading, don’t get in my face, you may get an intellectual beating.
I love it when men think they know more than me, dad I wish you knew how dumb you just sounded talking to me.
Maybe this poem was written with my dad in mind. Maybe this whole poem was meant for my dad, I hope you don’t mind.
I have paint on my fingers, tea bags full of ginger, and I might have 2 dates from tinder.
I just shaved my vagina last night, so I’m a little itchy today. I have to try to hide the scratch.
Problem number one, why am I scared for you to watch?
My mother saw me from the corner of her eyes, and made a face. She doesn’t understand why I’m okay being like this in the first place.
My father, ashamed, blames himself for not raising me right.
If only he understood his daughter’s fight.
I stand afar as I forgive them with compassion, yet I burn them alive in a fire of passion.
I do not aim to please anyone’s idea of a woman. I do not aim to tease a man who likes his women. Although I don’t mind the attention sometimes.
But I’m bothered by the direction of the attention; it’s all a show, a fake show, a mind’s projection.
The true parts of me are shamed, hidden, judged, misunderstood or ridiculed. They do not get attention out in the world, although in this poem, that truth is thrown out and turned to gemstones found.
I should not feel disgust as blood drips out of me at the bookstore and I get a sniff.
I should not feel embarrassed that I haven’t shaved my armpits in two weeks.
I should not feel like demanded sex when I want to show a peak of my beautiful skin.
I should not feel out of place as soon as my nipples, braless, react to the cold wind.
I wish people would stop telling me to wear bras.
I wish my past wasn’t at question as if I’m in open court... The judge coming to a decision soon.
I wish I could speak openly about my abortions.
They ask, are you proud of killing two babies?
Yet, didn’t ask me about my labias.
It’s not about pride, it’s about the story from the other side.
It’s about the decision making process.
Not about what happened at the office.
I was burned alive during my thought process.
I weighed out my options like a mother picking one of her two children to save from a burning fire.
I relied only on myself.
Releasing questions into the abyss, only to have to answer them myself.
I wonder if God was listening.
But I made my decision.
And I didn’t need anyone’s permission.
No need to go further.
Although I can speak on other experiences. Not just the murders.
Did you laugh? Yes I can make jokes too alas.
Oh but that’s scary, a woman should not joke about her past.
Yet here I stand, naked, sharing with you my heartaches, my heart beating fast.
I am here to change ways, I am here to change minds.
My ancestors tell me stories of women on the battle lines.
As we look to our past to see the future, know it will be hard
To bring with you, your culture. Your thoughts, your mind.
Hidden and re-written, they’re scared the truth be told;
We used to be so bold.
My plans of matriarchy seem to bring up a whole new way of thinking that’s actually thousands of years old.