They hate me
Without cause
All for their own
Righteous applause

Thank you for breaking me
And making me
A better me

Thank you for hurting me
And making me
A stronger me

Thank you for shooting me
And making me
Bulletproof

Thank you for burning me
And making me
Fireproof

on a good day
the ice is cutting your feet
but it looks like you're -
walking a seabed of roses
and red bells
shivering in silver molasses
and your far away eyes
seek oblivion and
mercy...
but you can't think
of anything
to dream.

on a bad day, you can't smoke scotch
so you drink it. you burn matchsticks
and croon lunacy with thick lips wishing
and rude plumes of an ash life.
you can hardly bark, but your bite's slipping
and the fruit is straw and dung
but the sugar,  black
in the white
flesh.

I am born into womanhood
at a time when the culture of love is synonymous with that of passion;
defined by the quiet crinkle of foil wrappers
and sweaty skin.

I am born into womanhood
at a time when beauty is defined by others,
when how you look is who you are;
nothing more and certainly always less.

I am born into womanhood
at a time when women are so powerful
that they are constantly trying to knock their sisters down;
self betterment and discovery are discarded for the sake
of being on top.

But I was born into a marriage
that values favourite colours
and buys flowers just because;
I love you is said as an appreciation,
not an obligation.

I was born into a family
that compliments my achievements and my interests,
that tells me I will do beautiful things;
I will be beautiful in this world because I am,
not because I could be.

I was born into friendships
that survive on the strength of diversity
and without the integrity of each other,
the shoulders to lean on,
may as well be leaves in the wind.

I am born into womanhood
a different kind of woman.

hope called through a
window's pane, the scratch
marks in the single glaze
opens my letters; they
sit down to honeyed
conversation out in
the back yard. my throat
rakes small tendrils
billowing up through
the gravel, i slumber
cradled between soft
hot patches of afternoon, i
call nobody lover but misery,
still.

moribund, late light
crosses the neighbour's
rose bushes and cries
from the fenceline. all
is broken like me, but i
do it better. that, i promise.

now, finally slowing in eyelid
beat counts, my dreams tell
truths of my own small life; the
ones i won't dare live by, but
instead lay down and watch
ribs lain below
asbestos skin: i lose
hope's screaming in the garden,
knowing no fingers would want to
cross their lines,
who'd edge up to ****** up
tired little i?