Tag: poetry

when you threw me to the wolves that night,
did you think they’d find me easy to swallow?

you’ve loved me more than the others; you
know i am shattered glass, iron nails, razor
blades. you know i claw and scream on the
way down.

of course i bit back. i learned to love the moon.
i wore wolf skins as easily as my own. i growled
at death and watched him run.

please know that if you feel the hair rise on the back
of your neck, sense a shadow in the bathroom
mirror, find eyes in the thick of night, i am here.

i do not hunger after you. i imagine you’ll taste
exactly as i remember: sour, chalky, gritty. dirt
under my nails. i will be bored of this form soon.

i suggest next time, you try feeding me to dragons.

I think Atlas would point 
at Prometheus and say
neither.

I think he’d say
we, ourselves,
are the hardest to carry.

I think he’d buckle under
the weight of the heavens
but that would be –
nothing–
compared to his thoughts.

Tell me, Atlas.
What is heavier:

the world or its people’s hearts?

Neither, Atlas would say.
It’s my thoughts.
My body.
My memories.
These are my biggest burdens.

Always opening and closing,
always mouth searching.

Babies have this reflex called
rooting, do you know?
If you stroke their cheek,
they turn towards your hand,
expecting to be fed.
It’s meant to disappear at
around four months.

I think – I think I never lost 
that. When someone shows me
even the tiniest bit of kindness
my entire soul still twists 
towards them. A sunflower
searching for the sun. A
hatchling keening for its mother.

I keep falling (in love) and falling (in love)
and falling (in love). Knees raking the
ground. Standing with blood pooling
around my feet. Still leaping with
outstretched arms. See,

last week this boy smiled at me and
I just thought no, no,
      don’t do that, don’t,
             I’m weak and broken and wanting
                       and I will tie myself around you like a vine.

          I will push my body around until it
                 fits yours. I will write your name on my veins.
                        I will open and open and  

    crack right
                                        down the middle.

bury the sadness,
darling.

you’ve been carrying it for so long
i know you don’t think you know how
but
there must be a way to set it down.
to set it six feet under,
where it shan’t bother you again.
lay it to rest under a simple tombstone
so you can walk away happy.
i don’t accept that you must carry this shadow forever.

bury the sadness,
darling.

you’ve been fighting for so long that surely
by now you must have won.
i hate how it always leaves you empty;
this burden sucking you dry of anything
but this life devoted to carrying it.

darling,
let me help you kill the sorrow.
it might bleed all over the floor
but we can clean it out, surely.
surely the time can come when this
hollow pain in your eyes finally dies.
i would see the light in your smile again.

but i know it’s not that simple.
know that this battle is daily one
that sometimes the burden is too crushing
all you can do is lie down.

so if you can’t
bury the sadness,
darling,
then let me slip in a little closer
and help you carry it
instead.

little girl learns grief
is a seed:
swallow it down whole
and never speak of the hurt
as it grows inside you.

little girl grieves:
swallows, whole.
devours entire portions of sorrow for breakfast.
little girl grieves.
grief grows.

little girl grieves:
grows into big girl turned warrior;
armor to protect the plant inside of her.
warrior swallows smaller sorrows to keep the grief fed.
warrior fights off any too-kind hands that may prune.
grief grows.

grief grows.
grief grows.
grief g r o w s.

warrior wakes up:
finds leaves have broken through skin,
through armor.
green sadness spilling out into light.
warrior big girl little girl
remembers what hurt feels like.

little girl grieves:
opens mouth to scream.
no words–
only flowers show.

POCKET-SIZED FEMINISM

The only other girl at the party
is ranting about feminism. The audience:
a sea of rape jokes and snapbacks
and styrofoam cups and me. They gawk
at her mouth like it is a drain
clogged with too many opinions.
I shoot her an empathetic glance
and say nothing. This house is for
wallpaper women. What good
is wallpaper that speaks?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
whose coffee table silence
will these boys rest their feet on?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if someone takes my spot?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if everyone notices I’ve been
sitting this whole time? I am guilty
of keeping my feminism in my pocket
until it is convenient not to, like at poetry
slams or my women’s studies class.
There are days I want people to like me
more than I want to change the world.
There are days I forget we had to invent
nail polish to change color in drugged
drinks and apps to virtually walk us home
at night and mace disguised as lipstick.
Once, I told a boy I was powerful
and he told me to mind my own business.
Once, a boy accused me of practicing
misandry. You think you can take
over the world? And I said No,
I just want to see it. I just need
to know it is there for someone.
Once, my dad informed me sexism
is dead and reminded me to always
carry pepper spray in the same breath.
We accept this state of constant fear
as just another part of being a girl.
We text each other when we get home
safe and it does not occur to us that our
guy friends do not have to do the same.
You could saw a woman in half
and it would be called a magic trick.
That’s why you invited us here,
isn’t it? Because there is no show
without a beautiful assistant?
We are surrounded by boys who hang up
our naked posters and fantasize
about choking us and watch movies
we get murdered in. We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.

The boy says
“I love you.” and you say
“No.” because this
is a dream and
you have teeth and claws
and blood and scales
and no one ever falls in love
with the monster unless
the monster turns out to be a prince.

You are not a prince.

You will never be the prince.

You wake up and
everyone around you is making love
except for you
because you are alone and you
are a monster and
no one makes love to monsters.
You would scrape their skin to the bone
and leave behind their husk.

You dream of being a monster
because you are.

No.
You dream of being a thief
because you wish you could-
because you would like to steal hearts.

Missing hearts are worth a heavy sum
but the wealth you want is not gold.
You want them to pay the ransom in love
because you are a monster
and monsters do not know any other way
to get that which they desire
and all you have ever wanted
is a hand to hold in yours
and a mouth to call to in the night.

i wonder if, as you flew away,
the crumbling earth begged for you to stay.

i wonder if you dream of it sometimes,
burgundy blood seeping through dark dirt.

i wonder if it torments you,
the ragged land you left behind.

if it cries out to you at night–

i’m broken but oh,
i was your home.

how could you leave?
how could you turn your back
on the dust you were
created from? how could
you abandon me?
and now you watch me ache
from continents away.
what use is it, your longing,
your heartbreak?
what use, when i am hurting,
when i am sinking
under the weight
of all this misery?

baba
ma
i know you crossed that sea
for life, for hope
for me

but, god
i’m so very sorry
it’s left you feeling
this empty.