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.
I stand afar as I look at 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.
I’m bothered by the direction of the attention; it’s all a show, a fake show, a projection.
The true parts of me are shamed, hidden, judged, misunderstood or ridiculed . They do not get attention out in the physical 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 i feel 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 beloved children to save in 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.
Or, if God, residing inside of me, sat back and just listened.
But I made my decision.
And I didn’t need anyone’s permission.
And now let’s get further.
I will speak on some of my 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.
So let me tell you my story; a Latina, woman, of 20 years old.
Culture seems to bring up a whole new way of thinking that’s maybe thousands of years hidden BOLD.
Awareness, for me, came with a broken heart. The pieces became heavy as I carried them wandering, lost, looking for a new family. At 20 years old, I came to know that everything I identify with, believe in, and work towards comes to an end as I walk through my father’s front door. I write of expression, yet I cannot express my feelings to my father, who immediately demands my tears to go back into their duct as they first appear. But a sigh of relief surprised me; I guess my white flag was ready to go up. Years of resisting, years of trying to teach my parents why a women can be independent, all down the drain. I didn’t mind anymore.
I lost my mother to my father a long time ago. He was always more important than me, and I never recognized the hollow image of my mother that manifested inside of me. Women stay at home, while men bring the bread home. I told my mother I wanted to travel, she looked at me and said well then, you need a man that’ll be there to guide you.
And on top of being a women in my patriarchal household, when you’re young, no one listens to you. They look at you, as their minds drift off to think of what they were on their way to do before you opened your big mouth and interrupted them. You ask them if they’re even listening, and realize it was the wrong move. You are now questioning yourself, wondering if you’re only demanding undivided attention from everyone at all times because you're just insecure, as they so kindly pointed out. You are made out to be the bad guy. The youngster who thinks they’ve discovered something about the lost Atlantis that no one else has been able to in thousands of years. How naive of you.
It’s life altering when you discover that they were the insecure ones all along, not able to accept the wisdom that you, young and all, were trying to share with them. Yes, children might be here to teach us how to humble ourselves. Sit back, forget our experiences, and learn something else. But do we let them speak?
I poured my heart out to you. I should’ve known you wouldn’t have understood. Not through any fault of your own. My story can only be felt by so many. You just weren’t one of those, baby. I hope one of you feel me and hold me in your heart, maybe.
This poem was written one year ago. Today, I am at peace. Thank you.