#wrote this after a women’s retreat I attended at my parish

[likehoneyorblood]

Funhouse Woman

Women are soft.

Women are warm.

Women are feather and pearls and hot soup.

I am broken glass.

A chipped china doll.

A piano tuned in the wrong key.

There is no softness in these ridges and edges and cracks.

I feel as though I don’t belong among other women,

Other women who are soft and warm and gentle.

There are cracks in my souls that will cut you if you get too close,

Stains on my heart that will blacken you too if you’re not careful.

I am not fit to be a woman.

I’m a smashed piece of pottery trying to pretend I haven’t been put back together wrong.

There is no need for a chipped doll already used and worn out.

No use for someone so wrong and other.

I am not fit to be called a woman.

I am too sharp, too crass, too stained.

This veil on my head might as well be charred to better represent the state of my purity.

My body is simply an ill fitting prison,

Creaking, breaking, and falling apart.

I was desirable as a girl.

I was broken as a girl.

And now I live as an off kilter vision of femininity,

Disorders and trauma twisting me into something you shouldn’t let your kids around.

Let them look up to someone tender, warm, and soft.

Someone who won’t cut their fingers when they touch.

I’ve lost the only ones I belong with, and now I belong nowhere.

There’s nowhere for a broken Barbie but the back of the closet.

I’ll watch through the keyhole,

Soaking up the warmth from the women passing by the door,

Knowing I can never understand the source of their light,

Knowing I’ll always be on the outside.

I don’t belong at tea parties.

I don’t belong in a sisterhood.

I’ll watch outside the window,

Miss the nuances,

Breaking apart piece by piece.