‘You can’t be a poet, you’re too tender.
You’d never be able to stand the blows
it takes to tell another’s story.’
‘And besides that,
you don’t have a poet’s touch.
You burn me. You scratch me.
You leave gaping holes in me whenever you look at me.
You’re not soft enough to be a poet.
The noise in your head has to be turned down first.’
I yawned. Looked out the window.
Considered tenderly pushing him out of it.
‘So, what can a mess like me be?’
'Well,' he began steadily, like this was
the introduction to some grand speech
he had practiced in the mirror,
‘Lucky for you I love you too much to let you go,
so even with your flaws,
you can be mine.’
I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.
He had his hands outstretched towards me,
waiting for me to take them and laugh with him
about my flaws all the way back to his place.
This was it. My fairytale.
Prince charming was a wolf in a secondhand suit,
licking his fangs at me in a rundown diner.
And here I realized, as I excused myself to
‘powder my nose’, and then slipped out the
side door, my worn slippers hitting the concrete
faster than ever before, that perhaps I am not a
damsel in distress, looking to be saved.
Maybe I am the villain. The obstacle.
Maybe every prince has been taught to save me from myself.
Or maybe, just maybe,
I am not a character that has been written before.
Maybe no woman has. We are too multi-faceted, too real.
We have circling wants that cannot be shoved into two hours
and have a happy ending slapped on them.
Maybe the stories are not telling enough.
Maybe it’s up to me."
I Woke Up With This Poem In My Head | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
happy international women’s day! make sure to include ALL women and not make your definition of womanhood exclusionary. anyone who identifies as female, regardless of race, biological sex, or sexuality is a woman that deserves to be celebrated.
After the first time
you never again mistake
your body for being your own.
After the curled fists
and the werewolf howls
and the slick pink tongues
slip-sliding over your
it is not the same.
You begin to stand like a
For Sale sign, at the bus stop,
in the parking lot, in the
supermarket self-check-out line,
always rickety and unsure,
forced to welcome people in.
You have a spine made of jelly,
made of play-dough, made of
You are always under construction.
When the men come in their
hard hats, jackhammers in their belts,
nails held tight between their teeth,
they think they are here to fix you.
They think they are doing you
a favour. You must admit
your body has been caving in.
It has a leaky ceiling, creaking
hinges, it makes too much noise.
Your body is an abandoned house.
You have to tear it all down
in order to build it back up.
They are here to pull you apart.
After the first time, the sound of
breaking glass doesn’t make you flinch.
The dust catches in your throat like hope.
The rubble of your body begins
to look like a promise.
you told me once that you thought we were all sculptures,
skillfully, precisely carved from stately towers of granite and ceramic -
then lovingly painted with warm, motherly hands
though none quite the exact
sometimes i wonder if i am a work never completed,
if my sculptor had seen me like a twenty page french essay
he did not want to complete and so did not, for
my eyes are as straight as my hair and the
bridge of my nose is not a bridge, it is a
where are the dimples my mother accessorizes with her
tinkling laughter and graceful curtsies? did the handle
of his worn chisel become too weak to leave
an indent on my cheek as he hammered away at
my almond eyes? was it an error or a justified choice to
decorate my spine with curves like tinsel during holiday
my dear, loving dear, do you remember when I told you
that we were a sea of sculptures, a field of art so carefully
chiseled, meticulously built? if so you must be a showcase stunner,
because i swear i can feel the ocean’s bottom when I trace the
insides of your collarbones; they are places traveled by no
and you must have been molded from softened glass
and from hand-woven cotton, seeing the way
your skin is so gently draped on the confines of your bones
like a young pond’s surface at dusk and dawn - sweet and smooth -
and your cheeks, high like unreachable hills and so beautifully
I look for the miniscule dimples on your back like they are x’s
and you are the treasure map. Your slightly crooked hips - goddammit
you can hardly tell- are twin canyons in Texas rolling plains and I’d love
nothing more than to kiss them inch by inch each day of every wonderful ‘us’
It’s not that I
don’t love you anymore,
because I do. I just
can longer see myself
hanging on every word
that you push my way.
I lost our spark
when you lost yourself.