What a world I live in
To experience emotions as powerfully as I do

My sadness is not an ache in my heart
With mascara tracks running down
It is deep, mournful, body-shaking sobs
Oceans of clear tears streaming from reddened green eyes

My anger is not a flickering flame of annoyance
Nor a clenched body needing a release
But an entirely enveloping wildfire
Blinding me from reason and logic

And neither is my love just comfort
Or a desire to care and be cared for
But a presence that encapsulates every thought
Every movement, every moment, defined by desire

Oh, it is a poet's dream
And a woman's curse

I'm a Feminist
But
My ovaries are in pain.

I'm a woman
But
I don't feel connected to my main vein.
I'm bleeding in places much deeper than my-

I'd say the word
But i'll refrain.

Instead of being taught to embrace,
I've learned to drown
In
The
Pain
Of
Being
A
woman.

Soft
Weak
Instead of
strong
And unique.

Instead of taking agency,
I'm treated like an antique.
Fragile,
Even though i've survived
Everything men told me...

(I'll leave you to ponder but
won't describe. )

I love being a woman,
But it's a love/hate relationship
I can't lie. 
I take pride
But when my head hits the pillow,
I do cry.

In fact, I mourn.

I mourn the excitement society had for me when I was born.
Now i'm rejected,
Because of children i haven't ejected,
Penises i haven't erected,
a husband i haven't selected.

A pariah if you will,
But i have my own will.
Something women are shamed for because we feel,
Feel the need to take back our power
Because if we don't,
Someone else will,
Tell us
What to wear,
How to heal,
**** our souls until we cant feel,
Leaving us empty
Alone and afraid
Only to arrest us for a feminist parade.
I love being a woman
But my heart is in pain,
I find solace in the depths of a woman,
So I know i'll remain...

tonight the sky.

dark palette.

the stars are projectors.
the paintings of them are in
perpetual motion,
carry the zero.

conflicted still life.
of spathodea.
of pomegranate.
of her own folded-up *****.

it's all in how you interpret
the brushwork.
girls can tell.

a reassuringly dull sunday
turns to intrigue.
the busy girl buys beauty.

people are places and things.
lost affections in a room
in need of images
or at least explanations.

she looks for it.
she listens for them.

the sound of existing.
the sound of a quiet room.
a rainstorm or possibly the sound
of someone taking a shower.

blind little rain.

autosleeper lowers her head.
the economy of sleep patterns.
and little else celsius.

tonight the sky.

tomorrow a place where
one can ruin oneself,
go mad, or commit a crime
with paint.

Once upon a scary night, within the dark streets of London,
Five women all met their demise by a shadowy demon.

One hundred and thirty three years and eleven months later,
No one to this very day knows the name of the vile killer.

So he'll continue to go by the name of Jack the Ripper,
Till someone brings to light the identity of the monster.

A new page turns:
it’s midnight
and all I see are dreams and glimpses of her,
the ink from her snake tattoo
dark on her wrist like a passing shadow,
lean fingers layered with gemstone rings,
jade feline eyes swallow me and spit me out.

I want to pull you in,
and trace the ink written on your skin.
It feels like stories to me,
pages and pages of words
transcribed along the flesh of Aphrodite.
And, oh, to touch with is untouchable—
the more I long for you, the more the venom
of longing seeps into my untouched heart.

I don’t identify as anything but ME
If you need a definition use a dictionary
But for some people, life is about
more than gender, ***, and sexuality