to be afraid,”
the match-boys
tell us right before
they throw
fistfuls
& fistfuls
of matches.
“don’t be so
fucking dramatic,”
the match-boys
tell us as our skin
drips into the dirt.
“you’re always
overreacting,”
the match-boys
tell the reflections
in the puddles they made.
- they only wish this is how it happened.
always put yourself first.
sacrifice at your own
discretion.
- coven rule #1.
II. the burning
“the only thing we’re guilty of is being women,”
we tell them,
& that’s all they hear.
that’s all they need to hear before they rush in on us. that’s all they need to hear before they
gather us together like cattle, adults & children alike. that’s all they need to hear before they
reveal the ropes they kept hidden behind their backs. that’s all they need to hear before they tie us around the same old oak tree, forcing us to hold hands with each other for comfort. (“ring around—r-r-ring around—ring around…”)
that’s all they need to hear before they pick up their feet & drag the matches across the bottoms of their boots.
- the second lesson in fire.
to
the men,
women are
born as
delicate
rosebuds.
even
the way
they
crush us
beneath their
angry steps
leaves them
breathless.
- wilted before the bloom.
they
tell us
over & over
& over
again
that women
need
to stay
small/
thin/
skinny/
petite.
that way,
we are
effortlessly
pocketed
to be used
& thrown out
at a later
time.
curves
& fat
& rolls
are a
colossal
“fuck you”
to the
patriarchy—
our accidental
rebellion.
- my body rejects your desires.
she’s
so scared
to
takeupspace
that even
the weight
of her
bones
sometimes
feels like
too much.
- the hollow-girl.
&
she
begins to
wonder
if kisses
have
calories
& how
long they
would take
to burn.
- the hollow-girl II.
I. water.
II. coffee&tea.
III. zero-calorie sweetener.
IV. one-hundred-calorie snacks.
V. a body so weightless no one else can own it.
- a hollow-girl’s grocery list.
to
describe myself
as
fat
is not
to
describe myself
as
ugly, lazy, worthless,
or undesirable.
- it’s my self-acceptance movement.
in our bellies:
fire fire fire
& sometimes
not much
else.
- these are the real hunger games.
in our hands:
embers embers embers
just waiting for
the opportunity
to ignite.
- catching fire is so, so easy.
the
men
make us
dance
for
them
until our
toes are
bloody
&
then
they just
tell us to
change out
our pink
slippers
for
r
e
d.
- their darling dancing dolls.
when his girlfriend
exits stage left
all the vicious villagers
gather ’round & ’round,
the hushhushhushing
of the dead man sea
as he takes his long-awaited leave
from the shadows
& reaches a hand out
for my blackwater hair,
rope-twisting it around
his unforgiving fist,
my neck bending back
as a white lily stem does
just before the
breath-taking & breaking.
he leans down
to kiss me with his
beautiful, blood-rusted
chainsaw mouth,
& the next morning,
all the ladies of the village
have their favorite shade of
blood splatter lip stain
named after me.
- abuse is nothing to romanticize.
telling me
not all men
have
bad intentions
doesn’t do
anything to
reassure
me.
after i
walk away from you,
nothing will have
changed.
i will still
be scared to
leave my house
after sundown,
i will still
find comfort
in keys resting
between fingers,
i will still
question
the intentions of
every man i know,
i will still
wonder
when i am
to become
a story
meant to warn
other people’s
daughters,
& i will still
cry when i turn on
the television
to find
yet
another man
getting away
with
well—
what they
always seem to
get away with.
i am not
the one who
has to change
the way i think
or the way i act.
they are.
- expectations vs. reality.
i hold
my tongue
out of fear
so often
that
blood
has
made
a permanent
home
in
the spaces
between
my
teeth.
- this is what womanhood tastes like.
we’re
forced to
tread over
the still-flickering
matches
they used
to eliminate our
ancestors
&
we
still
w h i s p e r
the expected
apologies
when
our toes
get singed.
- a born regret.
a girl’s first words:
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
a girl’s last words:
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
“i’m sorry.”
they try to
convince us
that our rapists
will only ever be
strangers
lurking in bushes
in the dark,
dark night,
that we
should keep
floral pepper spray
& pocketknives
tucked
neatly into
our purses
at all times
(because
apparently
even the act
of trying not
to be raped
should look
lovely
& feminine),
so
that when
our rapists
end up being
our grandfathers/fathers/
brothers/uncles/cousins/
best friends/boyfriends/
husbands,
we have no words
to describe it
& no one willing to
help light our torches.
- everything is a distraction.
what rape culture does:
fills me with
fleeting relief
when i find out that
i escaped
my ex-boyfriend
before he became
a rapist
& not after.
- this poison has seeped into everything.
we spend lifetimes
combing our way
through scarce
clover fields,
hoping, praying,
finger, eye,
toe, & leg
crossing
that we’re not
the 1 out of 6
who come up
empty-handed,
&
we are never
able to forgive
ourselves for being
the ones to pluck
that green amethyst hope
right before her fingers
s w e e p the thin air.
- safety & luck hold hands with each other.
i
can’t seem
to recall
agreeing
to be a
casualty
of these
manmade
disasters.
- cyclone.
no one should
have to carry
the unbearably
heavy weight of
a m a t t r e s s
on their back
for a lifetime.
- for emma sulkowicz.
i’m having the nightmare again. the one where the crooked wood comes to life & the tree-man with the sharp, gnarled branches uproots himself from the soil & comes stumbling out after me. i would recognize his face anywhere. it’s the face they sketched by the flow of my shaky 11-year-old words. after all these years, he finally gets to be rootless because wicked men are rarely punished for very long. his bark is dry & peeling & his exposed fruit rots from the inside out & i cannot peddle my little yellow bike away fast enough. the wheels get caught in the thick spring mud & suddenly i’m sinking & he reeks of revenge & i know nothing is stopping him this time because wicked men do not stop until they punish anyone who tries to tell them that the world isn’t theirs for the taking while the wind whispers to them: “take her, take her, take her.”
- what women dream about.
the men,
they’re
d r a g g i n g
me into
the shadow forest
where not even
the wolves
dare go.
they use
my body
like men
use women’s
bodies
& when they’re
finally done
with me
they cut off
my tongue
my breasts
my hands
my feet
& leave
no thread
behind
for me to
stitch
myself
back
together.
- what women dream about II.
I. don’t rape.
II. don’t rape.
III. don’t rape.
IV. don’t rape.
V. don’t rape.
VI. don’t rape.
VII. don’t rape.
VIII. don’t rape.
IX. don’t rape.
X. don’t rape.
XI. don’t rape.
XII. don’t rape.
XIII. don’t rape.
XIV. don’t rape.
XV. don’t rape.
- how to prevent sexually assaulting someone.
but
what if
the devil
is just
a woman
who was
banished
to hell
to stoke
the
flames
as
punishment
for
standing up
to
him?
- lilith.
he
told her
not to
play
with his
poor
little
heart
so she
spared it
by walking
a w a y
&
that’s
when he
stole
all her
smiles
& threw them
into the
dark&icy
december
waters.
- rip to the women who lost these games.
some
fathers
> will
c r a c k
their
daughter’s
teeth
with skinned
knuckles
&
when
her lover’s
fist
comes
for her
she will
offer him
an open-lipped
smile.
“it’s just like home,”
she’ll say.
- she didn’t even have to tap her feet together.
our
very being
is considered
an inconvenience,
our bodies
vacant homes
wrapped in layers
of yellow tape,
our legs
double doors
for one man
(& one man only)
to pry open so
he can invade us
& set down his
furniture,
never once
asking us
how we feel
about the curtains.
- they love us empty, empty, empty.
sometimes your demons
will be men
who show dimples
when they say “thank you”
& open doors for every
approaching stranger
& send you
good morning/good night texts
& remember
your mother’s maiden name
& surprise you with good coffee
on all your bad days
& with the same voice
he uses to tell you
he loves you,
he will tell you
how he dreamed
of killing you
a dozen different ways
last night
& woke up
aching.
- what men dream about.
&
the men
will always sit
(too) close
to you
&
claim they
just want to
be warmed
by your
flames
&
they will
smile as
they bottle
up your
sparks
&
later they’ll
tell everyone
they know how to
build such a great
& terrible fire
all by
themselves.
- women are always born on an eclipse.
they
think they
can write
our stories
because
their mothers
let them
fingertip-trace
their palms
but
their words
will always have