Will I live to see my culture begin to respect women as people?
Feminism is the idea that women are people- not objects to harass, objectify, rape, control or terrorize. Feminism is the active fight for equality.
WHY ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE LABEL?
I’m tired of men belittling my women studies major—calling me an angry feminist because I’ve been (quote, “brain-washed by material”. Do you not realize this material is all based on factual evidence- true stories of an epidemic in this country that continues to occur and needs to end NOW!?
I AM a feminist and I AM an angry one because I live in a culture that allows men to feel entitled to women, to objectify and rape them with little to no consequence. I live in a culture of victim blaming, slut shaming and misogyny. I know not every man is a misogynist, but Its time men evolve and actively spoke out in support of women. Without their respect, women cannot be treated equally.
This is 2014, and yet we haven’t come far from being owned by our fathers and husbands when we make .77 cents to every dollar a man makes for the same work. But because of our fight and devotion to equality for all human beings, we will not give up, until we are equal.
Will I live to see my culture begin to respect women as people?
When will he learn
how not to cry
inside a hand-me down glass globe
that lights the past
but dims the future
you can’t shake it enough to feel its magic
when we felt magic
you were as addicting as cigarettes
I charmed the glass of three way mirrors,
felt my body between heartbreaks
when it was cut open like a fun house.
I collected plane tickets
and held bowls under my eyes
to catch the leak of a five year battle
I thought I could win
but the present is contradictory fog
pointed-toe pirouetting during an evening ballet recital
tumbling onward in tiger-paws
backhand springing from the earth
like the gymnast ribbons claim who I used to be.
Death is uncanny
when you screw off its top
peer yourself over the edge
warn it not to take you in too
you pretend it’s listening
So you stay alive
to lay awake at night
counting how many ceiling tiles are cracked
but still standing
you stay alive
wondering what his last words could have been
off the riddle of the pillow
the last weary breath
next to the table with a water bottle
she cant bring herself to pour down the drain
His last name
gifted at birth
from a time
when reconciliation between a well-fed Italian lineage
cremated with the ash of Irish indecision
because before the land had bruised
angel with my last name
nothing kisses us goodnight
than the years we spent wishing for
a notebook full of perfect slam
which you should know
tastes better on their tongues
other than myself
than your sad girl riot
Of crying your heart out,
next to a scale,
And anyone who will listen to you
all they do is pretend
you call them boys
when they’re choking you just like any man could
hard In bed, it’s easy for you to pretend
but no one can forget
how easy you are
the only time anyone can make-believe love with you
Do not ask me to cut them in half
I let them breathe,
Ring them out breathlessly
While you are lying to your porcelain skin in moonlight
Weighed down by your mothers bad eating habits,
and your sorry rituals of pleading ugly misery
you beg them all;
like dogs they stay,
two hands to choke your reality,
Tighter around your neck
maybe less pathetic than a gin addiction
to analyze unfeminine women
But sure keep drinking your loneliness,
Because it’s all you’ll ever know
Sometimes I have dreams that my dad didn’t really die
he comes back, and I see him
and I am so relieved for a moment.
Dreams are said to last for 8 seconds
but I sometimes see him for minutes at a time
sometimes I am staring at a skeleton
fighting for breath in a bed that will eventually swallow him whole
and other minutes are spent sleeplessly crazed
I speak to him, in a zen state
high and displaced he hands me my drivers ed certification
and asks me why I never frame my achievements
"It’s 330 in the morning dad.." I utter, watching him absorb into the blue to red spectra in the corner of my eye.
There was once a point in time when I didn’t know what it felt like
to crave a certain way of looking at another person.
the dream is an image in distress
always stretching down blurry, spiraled staircases
I am always running
dizzy alongside the neatly trimmed hedges
high off the scent of fresh bark chips and spring time
spinning so sick
to reach you
I chase the image
until I awake.
Why didn’t you wake?
I know you best
better than anyone
at night you lay your head on my pillow, forcing my eyelids open with your tears
begging me to stay awake with you.
I am so tired, I tell you.
But you scratch my past onto your wrists,
bleeding over me in the moonlight.
So I sit up, quickly,
yours; full attention.
It is almost noon,
and this time you’re singing me sweet lullabies in my sleep
all I can do is toss and turn
But feel like I am going in the wrong direction.
"The wind has been teasing you", you laugh
it’s delicious; the cheer in your eyes as you watch my knees meeting with the floor
I am always gasping for air when I am around you.
you know I won’t let go, but tell me to hold on anyway,
as if i could forget,
as if i had the will-power
to unclasp you from the locket around my neck.
"you’re too shiny to look away from", I repeat.
Sometimes as if i am chanting
We rock, back and forth
spinning on an axis that does not belong to us
but knowing I cannot simply peel myself from the sun
you watch me melt, misting me as if to say
At least I am going easy on you.
The sidewalk bends around
our footsteps as we try
to run away from each other,
our maps sad with disappointment
we’ve lost our heads again
Lately I have found myself drinking from my pen
While what is left of us remains in piles
once well-kept secrets wrapped in red ribbon
we begin testing each other’s strength
untying the ribbon strand by strand until we unravel
to find disappointed exposure
I am sighing through tears like rain wiping windshields in a disastrous storm
A weak impersonation of you at your lowest
When you grabbed my hand my body went numb
I can be so careless sometimes
As I tried to dive
off the expectations
and into just me
I let you slip through my fingers
That are now aching from your residue
Knotted stomach, shaky hands,
I am sighing into cups of coffee we once lived in
Our stomach ulcers dancing in front of my eyes
Our broken battle-ship secrets echoing in my ears
In hopes to stay a float
your memory teases me
I haven ridden home in silence a dozen times
I cannot count the missing pieces
I have chipped
on your heart
on this life-beating, raging robotic time machine
holding in the ingredient list to our existence
I cover what has been punctured
a proud solider saluting their home in agony
Darkness feels just like light this time of year
our reflections follow us through rooms like the chanting of evil laughter
and the mirror refuses to cease its taunting routine
We ride home in silence.
like you’ve said everything you had ever wanted to tell me
But I always cave
a block away from home, I am kissing your fingers one by one
By midnight my limbs soften like melting ice cream as you kiss me
I am ready to declare love for your misplaced map, and closet full of shoulder pads.
My tongue can only dance on yours so sweetly
as you’d anchor my legs in ways that mattered.
with a black streaked face
alone in my lofty sigh.
I remembered your sweater
beneath my bed
and cry into its scratchy wool.
And feel it tense up into me like an accidental hug
meant to assure
I am not the only thing you’ve left behind that still belongs to you.
Just a humble reminder to us
who were not instantly proud of ourselves
for realizing we are gay,
For a lot of us it was a really scary time
But luckily time forces adaptation
Now years after coming out,
being gay is normalcy
there is no certain way to “be” gay,
despite our original confusion
We are enough. Whatever we are.
These days we look into the mirror, usually smiling
at the newer self, full of honesty— a pain stricken pin, plucking at raw truth
Through tears, we salute the past
respectfully placing our hands across our chests
as if it were dead skin that had once kept us warm,
but later we find it no longer serves the way it used to.
We will forever pick at the platter of original disappointments
like scabs we cannot escape
wanting to shed away what is hardest to forget.
We are glow in the dark
and you only see us when you want to.
Does high school make for such fun filled, joyous memories for so many But provoke some to pull out their hair—strand by strand,
wipe their kissed lips of gin and tonic,
punching holes into the familiar reflection— panicking behind
any mirror, lamp, or wall too shallow to swallow it’s own sorrow.
I Love how intimate TSA gets with me every time I visit them. Like old lovers we stare at each other, longing to get through, longing to know the truth. At first sight I am declaring my name, undressing slowly, removing my black jacket and shoes.
We enter into a foreign world.
I surrender with my hands up.
If you were deaf you would have seen my body laugh,” Take me”
but if you could read minds you might ask me how one remains calm.
“That’s great, carry on”, they say, hurrying me along like I wasn’t just waiting endlessly in line for that moment, where they look right through me. I rush toward my things and gather them, less tenderly than I had set them down, throwing them onto my shoulders like I’m simply slipping back into my identity.
But before I can wince away, I am stopped. Asked to turn around, as they press their gloved finger tips to my back, touching me without even feeling me. Looking for something other than what I have brought to the present moment. I throw on my coat once they brush me away, and without looking back more than once, I am whisked away into the sea of passports and brief cases.
Hesitantly I travel
If they too will remember our short but meaningful encounters.
Why did my mother
to hate the smell of burnt wood
but love the crackling of spit fire
maybe it would be then
that I would have told you how much I love adventure,
how often I feel held back
not like the second grade
it’s worse this time
this time they are telling me the sky is limitless
that I could touch it if I wanted to
they’re feeding me their crumbs and asking me to bite politely.
they are teaching me how minute and insignificant my bones are to the mass of the galaxy we grow inside of but take little appreciation for.
like mother. Her construction.
Constant promotion of better, life time able ism as an opportunity to surpass god in any triathlon
Maybe all of us are out of breath.
tired of apologizing for creating something that turned out to be less than perfect.
I guess I understand how the sky can grow foggy
and how little life can remain in something that was once so vibrant.
Why did she construct this tunnel vision?
Maybe it was the only blueprint she was given.