from you, body
& soul,
& would you
just look at
that?
you’re just fine
without
him.
- the body regenerates whenever the hell you want.
they don’t want us
to be
mary sue’s,
but
they don’t want us
to be
unlikable,
either.
that begs
the question:
do they even want us
to exist
outside of their
late-night fantasies?
- i am neither your paper doll, nor your blow-up doll.
be the
unlikable
woman
protagonist
(synonyms:
bitch,
realistic,
manhero)
all the
men
just love to
complain about.
- it’s so much more fun that way, isn’t it?
in this novel
the woman protagonist
claims she’s not like
those other girls,
not because she finds
their femininity
to be an insult or
a weakness, no—
it’s
because
she knows
all women have
their own unique
magic
that cannot be
replicated by her
or any other
woman.
- the plot twist we’ve all been waiting for.
there
is not
only
one
woman
body.
we are
simply
women
who happen
to have
bodies—
shelters
built to
protect our
woman-rage-fire
from
hurricanes.
- every woman is authentic II.
womanhood
doesn’t
have to be
this twisted
competition.
let us
cultivate
womanhood
until it grows
into sisterhood.
we’ll sprinkle
lavender seeds
into our
old wounds
until we’re finally
h e a l e d.
- your sisters are not your enemies.
we must help lift
each other above
the flames.
- women supporting women.
by all means,
let your judgments
die in the blaze.
- women supporting women II.
say it
with me
now:
“i am a woman.
i am a human.
& i matter with
no conditions
attached.
you may not
see my worth,
but i do.
i do.”
- dear women.
say it
with me
now:
“women
owe
me
nothing.
not anything.
not
one
thing.”
- dear men.
“boys will be boys”
until the day
we raise our sons
to practice
the exact same
responsibility,
accountability,
&
maturity
we assign to our
daughters
before choosing
their names.
- you don’t teach, they don’t learn.
i’m (not) sorry
to disappoint
you,
but your
charming smirk
will no longer
excuse
the hurt you
inflict.
try
not to
flatter
yourself
by thinking
you can
ever
b r e a k
me
when
i’m the
heroine
who had to
save
all your
favorite
childhood
superheroes.
- diana & i are on a first name basis.
call me
bitch.
call me
villain.
call me
she-wolf.
call me
bad omen.
call me
your worst nightmare
wearing a
red-lipped smile.
- even better, call me by my name.
i didn’t come here
to be civil.
i didn’t come here
to sit you down
with a mug of tea
& a blueberry muffin
to coddle you as
i try to convince you
that respecting
my existence is essential.
you’ve had plenty
of chances
& you took a
hard pass every time,
so i came here
to watch your anger overtake
until you finally
c o m b u s t.
- i’ll use your light to read.
forget
being ladylike
(whatever
the hell
that means)
& allow
yourself to
show
the world
just how
unapologetically
angry
this
inequality
makes you.
let it all
g o.
- throw flames like a girl.
women,
i implore you:
build your fire.
just pretend
you’re helping
the men
survive till spring
like we were
raised to.
let them get
nice & relaxed
until
their lungs
have more
smoke
than they do
air
&
no way
to call out
for
help.
dear match-boys,
you know
all those she-devils
you executed during
1692 & 1693?
well, they made sure
we inherited their power
by injecting sparks
directly into
our veins
& planting flames
at the ends of
our fingertips
& imbedding
one word
at the tips of
our tongues:
“erupt.”
- katniss only wishes.
you
gentle
(comma)
strong
(comma)
resilient
(comma)
d e a d l y
creature
(comma)
you
(period)
- you are an unstoppable force.
i’m
pretty sure
you have
w i t c h c r a f t
running
through
those
v e i n s.
- women are some kind of magic II.
every time
you “joke” to your other
red-handed
rapist friends
that it’s
not rape if
you warn them
first—
every time
you press
your callous-hard
hand
over her
pink lemonade lipstick,
“no please no”
mouth—
every time
you think of slipping
something smooth & sleepy
into her drink—
catch us
in the skies,
flying by night,
landing soundlessly behind you.
we’ll
be waiting
(im)patiently with swords
pushed up our dress sleeves
&
blood-rusted spikes
sticking out of
our boots.
(oh, yes
heads will be
thump. thump. thumping.
& r o l l i n g.)
the knights
of the round table
kneel to
us.
arthur,
rip your
ribs wide open
& eat your heart out.
brienne,
here’s our card.
we’ll be waiting
for your call.
- witch girl gang.
misogyny
/m 'säj ne/
noun
1: the power-driven hatred of women.
2: just the way things are.
e
e
-
misandry
/mi ' sandre/
noun
1: the reactionary, self-preserving hatred of men.
2: somehow this is going too far.
in my
fairy tale
version
of the story,
every
mattress
spontaneously
bursts into flames
any time
our “no”s,
any time
our silences
are met
with the
father-taught
resistance
of
hands
over mouths
& around necks
&
arms
that form
cages of steel.
the
same fire
that feeds us,
that nurtures us
never makes
bargains
with the
guilty
& we
always
walk away
uncharred.
- this is the reckoning.
according
to the news,
the woman found
her husband
touching
their daughter
with his
ice-hands,
so
as he slept
as safely
& as soundly
as
their daughter
never would
again,
the woman
considered the gun
tucked underneath
their bed,
but she decided
that bullets were
far, far too
tame
a
punishment
for what he
had done.
instead,
she got out her torch
& gave him a big
goodnight kiss.
“it’s the
perfect night
for a fire,”
she remarked
to herself
as she sat back
& sipped her
wine.
- these are the new burnings.
first,
i dismembered you
like a five-year-old girl left alone
with her first plastic doll,
fascinated by the way in which
we are all so easily
taken apart
but not so easily
pieced back together.
second,
i laid your limbs out
all over my kitchen table,
ever so careful so as not to
stain the perfectly polished oak.
in the back of my mind,
i knew it would be okay even if it did;
i bleed twelve weeks a year,
so i know a thing or two about bloodstains.
(your messed up, mangled limbs
felt colder to the touch than the icicle words
you dropped down on my head
that last night.)
finally,
i buried some of your parts
in the garden where only green things grow;
i buried some of your parts
in the spider-webbed walls
of the abandoned attic;
i burned some of your parts—
your smoke cursing
the silver lightning sky—
before sprinkling your ashes
over the sickening sea.
(i don’t consider myself
a spidery, spiteful, spitfire woman,
but if i’m never going to be whole again,
then neither are you.)
- how i got over you.
she
wished for
him to burn
& oh, how that
motherfucker
burned
&
oh, how
exquisite the
new life was that
she built from his
blackened
bones.
- no longer helpless.
(homage to the musical Hamilton by Lin-Manuel Miranda)
gather ’round, gather ’round.
are you comfortable?
very good. because this poem goes out to all the match-boys who mistakenly considered me to be a silly little girl unworthy of their truth, unworthy of their love, & unworthy of their respect. know that every time you jerk awake mid-freefall, it was me who pushed you out of your 3 A.M. dreams. & know that whenever you feel that chill creeping up & down your spine on a warm summer’s day, i’m the one who’s been dancing all over your grave. & know that whenever you think you spot a shadow in your peripheral, it’s just me, making sure you never hurt another woman again.
it’s such a s
hame that you will finally have to learn that there are consequences to treating women like they’re n o t h i n g.
you may have gotten to walk away, but a piece of me will follow you forever.
now, isn’t that romantic?
- vengeance is the new moving on.
maybe
i’m not the
“crazy ex-girlfriend.”
maybe
i’m just a person
reacting rationally
to the abuse
& disregard
for women
that
society has
somehow
convinced us
is completely
normal.
- i refuse to pretend anymore.
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
do you hate me yet?
if
the very
idea
of
standing up
for myself
frightens you
so
damn much
then
i guess
the power
you thought
you held
over me
wasn’t that
impressive
in the
first place.
- fragile masculinity.
but
i digress.
what i’ve been
trying to say
this whole time
is that
when you
wrong me
you’ll be
expecting me to
forgive you
like a
good, well-mannered
woman,
when in actuality
you’ll finally
get to know
what fire tastes like.