#poem on women

[self-titled-poet]

T/w - SH, SA, ED

I realised that nothing was really mine

At the very least,

My body.

It first belonged to my Mother,

Maybe it was okay then

Since she grew,

Nurtured and raised me.

Except, at the tender age

Of just eight years old

She forced me on a diet.

She wanted to change me,

Even then,

My looks not conforming

To the little girl she pictured

For the 9 months I lived

Inside her body.

I was forced to eat gum

If I wanted a snack,

And foods were given labels

Like ‘good’ and ‘bad’.

Yet my body never shrunk,

Because it wasn’t built

To be like the others,

There she started a habit

That lived for ten years

Of starving to be beautiful.

After her, my body belonged to a man,

Who didn’t care

That his words would make me

Cut lines across my thighs

As painful reminders

That I was not enough.

A man who entered the part of me

I was always told to keep closed,

Like a secret never whispered,

A promise never broken.

It happened so quietly

One Saturday night

Only part of my clothes taken off

My skirt rolled up,

I barely knew what was happening,

Nor was I invited to participate.

The silent encounters continued

For 2 years after that,

Me letting him explore all the things

I never really owned,

As I got some kind of rush

Out of being wanted,

My beauty finally up for grabs

And given a value.

When he left, the parts I thought

I had clawed back from my Mother

By finally being worthy,

Womanly, beautiful

Disappeared faster than I gained them.

It became like a drug,

A quick hit

For my body to be owned

By any man that simply dared to ask.

It didn’t matter if

He undressed me first,

Or if we were in privacy

As long as he had me,

I had a use for my body.

This tawdry affair continued

For 5 years

As I thought I was reclaiming

What was mine,

Doing something our Grandmothers

Would only dare to dream.

Finding out what my body

Sees as pleasure

Using men the way they used me,

Until my body was pulsing,

Like I owned it all.

The last person my body belonged to,

Was someone I believed

Would be satisfied just tracing

The shape of my lips

While playing with my hair

With Hozier playing softly

To the beat of our hearts.

But I have come to realise

As a woman your body isn’t yours,

Instead he ripped the last

Drop of hope

I was clinging on to,

The nights I awoke with him

Pressed into me as he

So slowly and nearly invisibly

Rocked

Pushing himself as far as he could

Without disturbing me

(To his knowledge)

Inside

I lay awake after each time

Convincing myself I dreamed it,

Because after all these years,

How could I still not own

My body.

—k.l

[forsapphics]

She is the poem

by June Bates

[saydesole]

Rest peacefully Nikki Giovani

“When you wake up in the morning, say I love you, to yourself “

[whendidmythoughtsgocrazy]

“You’re an actress, right?”, ”All women are actresses, dear. I’m just clever enough to get paid for it.”

k.b. // murder mystery - netflix

[iseetheworldinmetaphor]

The Metamorphosis of Birds 2022 | dir. Catarina Vasconcelos

[theblackfemininesociety]

a depiction of black women in their element ✨

thefemininitysociety

[metamorphesque]

you are terrifying and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows how to love.

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love, Warsan Shire

[afriblaq]

Remembering the revolutionary poet, Nikki Giovanni

[sakshinarula]

I feel like a galaxy when you look at me. No one has ever looked at my darkness with so much love.

-The Art Of Staying Lost, Sakshi Narula

[pinkpopwitchery]

the ladies' bathroom is the temple of Aphrodite

I make my pilgrimage through the crowd

I dance my way through the beer garden and enter her sacred space

past midnight, the sermons begin

the sink is the altar at the temple of Aphrodite

the priestesses are gathered around one tiny mirror

their giggles and cackles are ambrosia to my ears, the nectar has long before started flowing

it has to, else no service tonight

"oh my god," the high priestess says, invoking the prayer

"you're too good for him," says another of the women

"girl, I love that dress," says the third.

one of them offers her mascara. communion.

the stalls are the confession booths in the temple of Aphrodite

as the godess herself holds a girl's hair as she confesses her sin

"do not worry, child, it is not a sin to live in hedonism," she says, her voice like honey

"stall’s free," the girl stumbles out

it is a mess, the temple of Aphrodite

but not a repulsion. tear tracks are a mark of love,

not for the man who caused the tears but for the girls who wipe them away

you’ll never see them again, but tonight they voice the will of a godess

I ask the high priestess where she got her shoes

it is part of the ritual of the temple, and I have done my part now

"ooh, girl, on sale!" the priestess is pleased.

the godess herself is appeased. I go in peace.

the ladies' bathroom is the temple of Aphrodite

[forsapphics]

If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho

translated by Anne Carson

[blackkcandyy]

[bleedingcrownkel]

"A Glimpse of You"

I love when you send me random pictures,

Little windows into your world, your scripture.

A story unfolds in every frame,

A quiet beauty that whispers my name.

Whether you’re wrapped in the fabric of your day,

Or in your purest form, where vulnerability lays,

Each moment you share feels like a gift,

A glimpse of you, and my spirits lift.

Fully clothed, you’re elegance defined,

Every detail a masterpiece, perfectly aligned.

The curve of your smile, the spark in your eyes,

You outshine the stars, even the skies.

In your barest form, you’re a portrait of grace,

A canvas untouched by time or space.

Raw, unfiltered, yet so divine,

I’m left in awe that such beauty is mine.

These pictures aren’t just images you send,

They’re moments where my soul transcends.

A reminder of you, in all you do,

That I’m blessed to simply witness you.

So send them often, let me adore,

Every inch of you, every frame, and more.

For clothed or bare, you’re a dream come true,

And I’ll forever cherish the sight of you.

[iseetheworldinmetaphor]

"...but I knew that the sky was where humankind had thrown everything it coudln't grasp. God, the dead, infinity, and UFOs they all lived in that unknown place. Sharing it in a civilized manner so they could all fit."

The Metamorphosis of Birds 2022 | dir. Catarina Vasconcelos

[midsummerdreamhouse]

NEWS! All The Beautiful Things (by @emmagreyrose), a poetry collection on love and loss, now available for Pre-Order!

Reserve a copy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DK1ZNQWJ

[soracities]

Fahmida Riaz, "A Woman is Laughing", trans. Ankita Saxena, pub. Modern Poetry in Translation [ID'd]