Sometimes I look at my eyes and do not recognize them. They shift in color - blue, green, gray - depending on my mood. Sometimes I see a storm in them, gathering strength, quiet but urgent. Other times I see rolling fields of grass swaying in the breeze, endless possibility. When you have fickle eyes, the only thing that remains constant is the space behind them. There, your memories steer the helm of your body. Most times I cannot control the direction of the sails, so I look to the mirror, my eyes like beacons, warning of what’s to come.

Black mothers are

three times more likely to die in childbirth than white women

Black mothers are

five times more likely to die from pregnancy-related disorders

For black mothers,

abortion is about saving lives not ending them

A ban on abortion means

more death for black women - the rate will rise by a third

A ban on abortion means

more death for poor women,

Who seek unsafe ways to save themselves

To "die trying" becomes a gruesome reality

There is no sense of poetry here.

When women are treated merely as vessels

Criminalized, brutalized, marginalized

We cannot begin to consider the value of "lives" lost

When we do not value the ones already living

Black mothers may have abortions at higher rates

But that's not due to some moral failing

At least not on their part - this racist nation is to blame

These women, often poor, the game stacked against them

Lack access to healthcare that should be a right

As their schools teach abstinence if anything at all

If you think Black Lives Matter,

focus on the human beings here now

Instead of clumps of cells and some imagined future

The reality is they were saved

From a world that doesn't want them

This country hates women,

the black and brown ones the most.

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” - Abraham Lincoln

I dedicate this diddy to honest Abe, whose moral compass may have leaned a tad closer to due north than mine. As you read, I urge you to sing aloud in the style of a knee-slappin' Honky Tonk tune. If you'd like to hear me humiliate myself, you can listen to me singing it in my bathroom here: https://voicespice.com/Player.aspx?c=p&h=37B44670&j=373839

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllll!

If I woke up one day omnipotent

I'd smile at the good fortune sent

I'd end hunger n' cure all disease

And o'course say no more poverty

But when all the major work was done

That's when I'd get to having fun

I'd take a swig to steal my nerves

And give you just what you deserveeeeee!

(Double-time, now!)

I'd strap Ted Cruz to my own dining chair

And give him what I thought was fair

Peel back every single finger nail

Say he's spendin' all his life in jail

He'll only get one meal a day

And every bite turns someone gay

Then when he tries to rest his head

We'll read'm anti-racist books insteadddddd

I'd put some dynamite in Mt. Rushmore

Blow it up and watch the pieces soar

The air would fill with stone and dust

And I'd replace it with who we must

Ruth Bader Ginsburg, HRC

Justice Jackson, Gaga and Queen B

Angie Davis and Mother Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Plus all three members of TLC (Why not?!)

We'd start the government straight from scratch

Only women in this brand new batch

Of leaders who know how to lead

With consensus and humility

And any shouting of #notallmen

Will land you in the lions' den

Is this a figure a' speech or real?

I'll let my emotions take the wheel

'Cause ain't that what ladies do best

I'll just have to get it off my chesttttttttt (Eyes up here, honey!)

And we'd try more old Republicans

With crimes against Americans

Send McConnell to live with his own kind

On a turtle reserve oh so fine

But first we'd make him watch TV

Only hours upon hours of Broad City

'Til his cold, dead heart was filled with rage

Then we'd slap his chins and throw him in his cageeeeeeeee (Were they only okay for kids?!)

But we can't forget dear Lindsey Graham

And Brett Cavanaugh, our boofin' man

Since they're cool with rape and sex assault

And nothing's ever been their fault

We'd let the women decide their fates

To chop or chemically castrate

And force Lindsey to show his special mooooooooooles

Just kiddin' - wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole

But don't you for one minute think

That we'd forget women who stink

'Cus there's right wing ladies 'round

Marjorie Taylor Green and Blackburn take the crown

Since they wear their internalized misgoyny

Like a badge of honor on their sleeves

We'll employ them at Planned Parenthood

Until they've changed their tunes for goooooooooood

I know this song did not have a bridge

But I'm God now, so it's my prerogative

And before I enact my incel ban

I'll give the remaining highlights of my master plaaaaannnnn

I'd end police brutality

Find all stray pets a family

Make the temp forever seventy

And make college tuition free

End women's clothes size discrepancieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees

And keep Andrew Garfield just for me

(Yeehaw! Spiderman's mine!)

"Can you provide a definition of the word woman?"

Republican Senator Marsha Blackburn from Kentucky recently asked Supreme Court Nominee Ketanji Brown Jackson to answer this question, not because she was looking for a personal answer - perhaps about the resilience and strength of women like Brown herself who rise in a patriarchal society despite its challenges - or because she suspects Jackson doesn't have a basic command of the English language, but because she was looking for a very specific answer about biology and chromosomes.

To start, we should all be able to recognize that the question itself is irrelevant in a Supreme Court confirmation hearing (much like most other Republican lines of questioning about religion and anti-racist babies), the purpose of which is to judge fitness for a life-long position on the bench. But more than that, it was a question not asked in good faith, one aiming to either A) catch Jackson in an answer that would somehow denigrate transwomen or B) get her to do exactly what she did - provide no answer - so that Republicans could froth over the mouth at it. Either way, what remained evident to me throughout those hearings is that what womanhood is most about is putting up with an exorbitant amount of bullshit. And sometimes, quite sadly, that bullshit is coming from your fellow women, whose internalized oppression endangers us all.

To be a woman is to wonder if your breasts make your shirt too tight for an interview, if you'll be able to walk home from the bar tonight alone, if you'll be heard at the doctor's office, if you'll be given the promotion even though you're pregnant, if your kids will resent you for the time you spent at work, if you're too quiet, too loud, too emotional, too aggressive, too ugly, too pretty, not enough. It is learning to exist and attempting to thrive in a world that was built for you to fail, because no matter what you do someone will notice you are trying to escape the confines of the cage built for you and they WILL have something to say about it. Your freedom makes men uncomfortable.

And yes, things are slowly changing. We can have conversations about gender as a construct, gender as performance, gender as fluid - all valid and complex assertions that deserve to be explored. But there is no erasing the experience of being a woman, which regardless of the anatomy you have, is irrevocably linked to the way you move through the world and are perceived. The treatment you receive (or are denied, if we are speaking of the reproductive health kind), the assumptions made (about your intellect, your desire, your capabilities), the tight rope you must walk that almost always requires a polite smile in the face of ignorance at best and outright sexism at worst.

Maybe to be a woman is to exist as the nexus of all these constraints and contradictions. And any moment of joy in the face of such a thing is both a triumph and act of resistance. Womanhood is war.

I can't help but cringe when I see writing prompts that ask the writer to "keep it clean." Other than certain rules around basic grammar, punctuation and spelling that help ensure ideas can be conveyed clearly across audiences (and even here, there is arguably some flexibility), writing should be untethered. Good writing exists at the place where creativity and risk intersect - if there isn't some sort of fear or discomfort at play while you contemplate sharing your writing, you're doing it wrong. It's hard to be honest with yourself, let alone the world, but that authenticity is what makes writing sing - the best songs evoke strong emotion, connect people and move us to action.

This is not to say that good writing has to be full of "fucks" - obscenity, sexuality, violence and the like all have their place insofar as they further the story or characterization and help the author to build a world or setting that feels true. Many a work has been criticized for unnecessary rape, for instance, that does little to advance the plot or characters and is used more so for shock value, often offering insight into the writer's social/political views on women more than anything else. But to box someone in from the start - to tell them to keep it clean in a world that is very much the opposite - seems like a recipe for the production of writing that is superficial and half-hearted. Give me the grime and the pain any day, to remind me I am real.

Rain drops

White noise

Soft glow

Tires on pavement

In the distance

Soft, easy breaths

Light snore

Ear fur

Rubs against sheets

Sunday silence

I'm embarrassed

that it took me this long to realize.

All that time I looked for love from others

Because loving myself

was just too hard

Even if I felt it

- for a fleeting moment -

I couldn't be trusted

Only someone else

could tell me I was worthy

And if they left

it confirmed what I knew all along

I was

Too Much,

Not Enough,

Disgusting,

All Wrong.

I was a manipulator, a whore,

who tricked them all

into loving me.

Only now can I see clearly

That I'd been looking

for approval

almost since the beginning

For reasons,

some chemical, some not

Some examined, some left better

~ in the shadows ~

If they lied so powerfully

I could hate myself

I argue they're better

there in the dark,

where they were made.

The thing about

looking for love on the outside

Is that you lose the ability

to make it for yourself

Like when you take

too many antibiotics

And your body forgets

how to make the good bacteria

that kept you balanced and clean,

and now you're just itchy and weak.

Fortunately for me,

Even though I sustained

many cracks along the way

I managed not to fully break.

And the thing about cracks is

they may hurt

or make a thing look less perfect,

but they also let in the light

And eventually it shone bright enough

For me to see the Truth of myself

I was at the end of the line to be loved by me,

but I saved the best for last.

Art is the only thing that moves me

Even when it's tragic

I still wish I was there

A character in the story

Because beautiful, fictional pain

Makes me feel more real

The the everyday ache of the mundane

Art is the only thing that moves me

It's hard to explain to carbon copy people

That I want more than picket fences

I'd rather not be boxed in at all

Chained to my desk

By a pair of golden handcuffs

That grow tighter every year

Art is the only thing that moves me

But I am surrounded by piles

Of manufactured things

Every one of them a lie

They make me fill stiff like plastic

My Barbie feet have no toes

And I am stuck in my dreamhouse

I wake in the nude, cocooned in soft cotton sheets, roused by sunlight spilling across my eyelids; I have no need for an alarm clock. I rise when I please, with no place to be other than where I wish. I can hear the soothing sounds of the falls outside, beckoning me like a 'come hither' finger, so I rise and open the window. Just down the road, I can see the water rushing over rocks covered in emerald moss, its droplets creating tiny rainbows in the air.

I smile and let the gentle Irish mist refresh my face and neck. This is the only skincare I will ever need, as I am as soft and supple as the day I was born. I run my fingers along my jaw and take a deep, contented breath.

When my daydreaming is through, I begin to make my way to the kettle, but I can't help stopping for a glimpse in the mirror. My hair is a hundred different shades of strawberry and copper. It shines like liquid metal. I raise a sinewy arm to comb through it with my fingers, and as I reach, I notice a taught stomach and nipped waist, creating an enviable hour glass figure. My breasts sit at attention, perfectly proportioned to my petite frame like coconut snowball cakes with delicate cherries on top. I exist to be admired. I turn around, and the view from behind leaves me equally breathless. Not a dimple or mole to be found. With unspoiled porcelain skin, I am the stuff of famous paintings.

Eventually, I pull on an oversized sweater and buttery leggings out of necessity. I sip sweet, hot tea on the back porch and engross myself in my latest writing endeavor. Ever since my first novel topped the New York Times best seller list and they optioned it for an HBO series, I've been able to write full time and at my leisure, with considerable salary advances at my disposal. I guess it's true what they say - I really am the voice of my generation. Otherwise, why would they pay me so extravagantly even before pen has touched paper?

The next few hours fly by. I am in that magical zone where creativity flows so freely I have no choice but to let it out. I emerge on the other side of it in a daze, like I'd been in a pleasant hallucination outside myself looking in. I find that I am starving, so I take a break to eat warm brown bread slathered in Kerry Gold. And no matter how much I eat, I never seem to gain a pound, so I allow myself every indulgence.

As I chew, I turn on the U.S. news to see what's happening back home. An elegant Black woman in an expertly tailored white suit glides behind the podium and begins to speak. Her partner, another effortlessly gorgeous and poised woman with lovely mocha skin looks on with love and pride, so much so I swear I can feel it through the screen. I put my hand against the glass and it is warm. I can't help but swell with pride myself, knowing that America has finally become the world leader it always professed to be - capitalism dismantled, healthcare for all, pay equity among all genders and races, free college tuition, and lobbying and guns banned in totality, to name just a few of our recent achievements. I smile, as if Madam President can somehow see me through the screen, and listen closely for her plans to continue this forward momentum.

"Together, with the help of my other sisters in arms across our allied nations, we have taken the necessary action to avert climate catastrophe. Next, we set our sights on world hunger..."

Just then, I hear the door open down the hallway and am forced to turn away from the TV's warm glow. I would've been annoyed at the interruption, but one breathtaking sight has been replaced by another - my husband, critically acclaimed actor and native-born Irishman Jamie Dornan, is crossing the threshold of our front door. I probably would've married him for the way he says words like "down" - more like, "dhoyn" - alone, but it certainly does not hurt that he has a jaw so chiseled it rivals many a museum's marble busts. There's also the drown-in-me blue eyes, ever-tousled toasted caramel hair, cut six-foot frame and the fact that he sings to me every night. But, perhaps most importantly, he always brings me pastries.

·

I know I just ate, but because of my permanently youthful metabolism, I do not think twice before popping a dreamy slice of lemon pudding cake between my lips. Jamie looks at me intently while I savor - "I love to watch you delight in things" he says, before easing my fingers into his mouth to suck away the sugary remnants.

Of course, this leads to an exploration of much more than finger tips, in a session that lasts exactly the right amount of time, per usual (an ideal 28 minute ratio we have perfected) where we obviously climax together while staring into one another's eyes, mouths agape at both our own pleasure and beauty. A scene so idyllic it should be filmed. We collapse next to one another, laughing at the madness and intensity of it all, before discussing the month ahead.

As he so often does, Jamie will travel to shoot on location in Paris for his next film, and I will join him in two weeks time. Until then, I will likely have one or more of my lovers stay with me at the cottage to pass the time. I crave variety and attention, and Jamie is more than supportive of my needs, as my happiness is his foremost priority. He, of course, will remain celibate until we are reunited, because he prefers to be ravenous for me and channels all of his extra energy into his work in the interim.

I lay on his chest, listening to his strong heart beats and begin to muse on who I will have during our time apart - there's Sam (Heughan of Outlander fame) for sure, and then I absolutely must see Theo (James of Sanditon fame) before also calling on Aidan (Turner of Poldark fame) in advance of my trip to France. I will consider making them don their character clothing throughout our time together, as I am clearly in a period drama mood.

My head is awash in thoughts of them all, and soon I find myself unsurprisingly stirred. Mere ideations of this expertly assembled parade of men has made me hungry again, so I turn to Jamie for satiation. As he traces a line from clavicle to navel with his tongue, I remind myself to work female pleasure and its critical role in dismantling the patriarchy into my next Ted Talk.

At first, a graze

Your pinkie against mine

In an elevator

As we walked to the 1 train

It felt electric but unsteady

What was it supposed to mean?

The next day you took my chin

Into your hand

Your skin was warm, but rough

You asked how I could be this pretty

Fingers wrapped around my jaw bone

Just a bit too tightly

I think I was flattered

But your stardom cast a shadow

Isn't pretty a word for little girls?

I was 23 and you were 35

My chest was tight that first night

You invited me upstairs

You'd been feeling stressed

And the director told me to help

For the show, she said

Everyone wanted to please him

So I should want that too

Your hands gripped me above the waist

Thumbs digging into my hip bones

As you breathed heavily into my ear

"I've wanted to do this for so long"

It'd only been nine days

Your hands worked their way up

Ravenous, searching for something

I wasn't sure that I could give

They seemed so large in that moment

As if they could press against my face

Smother me and make me disappear

I would've welcomed it

We met on the stage of your show

You a film actor turned Broadway star

Me an intern wanting to use my own hands

To create something new

But I keep them in my pockets now

And clench them into fists