Am Still a Woman?

Am I still a woman if unloved by a man?

Not my father, not my pastor, especially not by him.

Am I still a woman if belief in the feminine divine wanes,

If tears are woven by other women, and lies between us remain?

Am I still a woman if never truly needed,

If barely wanted in the spaces I've pleaded?

Am I still a woman if not small in stature,

Filling rooms with clutter, battling self-censure?

Am I still a woman if not petite in design,

Unable to fit in places meant for me to align?

Am I still a woman when engulfed by solitude,

Feeling utterly alone, misunderstood?

When the sun sets, face unwashed and bare,

Brush forgotten; life's pace slowed with care.

Am I still a woman if my stomach's silent growl,

If the bracelet lingers, a quiet howl?

Am I still a woman when I cry so hard I can't walk,

Eyes puffy, hair burdened by loss and talk?

Unable to comply with rules once taught,

Fearful of intimacy, emotions scattered and sought.

Knocked-down walls turning to mended fences,

Forced to forgive, life's complex expenses.

Am I still a woman despite it all,

In the face of adversity, standing tall?

Heaven feels like

Cold hands, my skin, goosebump-ridden,

I'll walk myself down the aisle, even if you won't meet me there.

I'll compromise my smile for lips described as soft and divine,

To be seen as pleasure, a willing incline.

Keeping calm 'cause patience is key,

To my ever-longing urge to have you desire me.

With such abundance, forget every love of the past,

So, my name's the only one, on your tongue that will last.

I want you to use me, for your indulgence,

I want to hurt with the strength that I used to love.

Tell stories of the way you touch my bare back,

Sharp as a knife, staring down at my turbulence.

The wonders it is to have never died,

But to know what heaven feels like, side by side.

Healing takes time, yet I've only ever been scolded for my gradual pace. Hurried to the finish line, rushed to the destination, as if the journey holds no significance. Pushed out the window because I lingered too long savoring the view. My lack of speed isn’t all my fault. I carry the weight of the things that anger me. Anger has turned my glass body into a brick - and I've never heard of a time a brick wall won a race. Yet my friends seem to be the feather holding the stopwatch yelling at me to go faster as if I was still a body made out of glass, as if I wasn’t changed, as if I was like them. Sometimes I wish I was just like my friends. Not to say I don’t have any desirable qualities. I know they’re there though they are quite hard for me, myself to name. I have glistening eyes (Though they are the ones I blame for my fate). I've been told my nose is cute and that I don’t smell. But I’ll never compared to the face of my friends and the way they love without using their hearts, I wish I was like my friends in the sense of how they pretend the weather doesn’t change. The winter is just as hot as the summer and autumn is the same thing as spring. Rain or shine they hold themselves high as if there was not a tornado right behind them. I don’t seem to understand how we stand on the same ground - their shoes coming out clean, but I have muddy feet. They smell the roses and I get caught in the thorns.

I have a hard time understanding my Mother and a harder time understanding my Father. I wonder how hard they try to understand me, or if they just assume they are all knowing - they're are a second hand of God.

I am more enlightened by the more people I don't allow myself to forgive. Discovering their mountains flooded my seas and I am only as strong as the monuments around me. The knowledge of my pain is never exploited because there's no autopsy on a body that still breathes. I met these people before I knew what it meant to have known me. I am enlightened in the ways of worth.

I do not have much knowledge on why people are bad people or how good people can do bad things, or how bad people can do good things. How hurt people can hurt people. How someone can have such malicious intent and still sleep. I think causing pain is absolutely embarrassing.

So no , I do not understand the people who have not only stabbed me in the back but make a point to twist the knife. Yet my greatest enlightenment is not caring to find out. Speaking to these people again is the definition of failure. It is projectile vomiting and rotten eggs. It is the spilt milk that I cried over.

My enlightenment is blurry, I can't tell if I've started living life differently or just found a new way to stumble through it. I'm just a writer who can't write. Just an expression of ideas. I don't know how to properly form sentences. But I have learned that some things are only for God to forgive.

I have a hard time understanding my mother and a harder time understanding my father. I've had to unlearn the things they have taught me . Daddy lesson's were never very good , never very loving. Lessons I create new for me and find importance in enlightenment even if it means lack of knowledge.

Lately, I forgot I cared

That I wasn't loved by you

And then saw you smile

And it took me back to the days we used to laugh

Our energy together allowing us to run for miles

And I wonder what about me didn't make the cut

What about me didn't appeal to your senses

What about me wasn't enough for you

Lately, I remembered what it was like

To want to be wanted by you

And then I saw

The array of nothingness in your eyes

Something I’ve never noticed

And I wonder how long they’ve been empty

What about the world that made them die

What about the world affected your sight

Lately, I have lived in a world

Worried about you

Releasing it wasn't I who did not satisfy

Because you were lost

And I wondered what you really longed for

What about your life is not appealing to your senses

What about your life is not enough for you

In such words I describe my heartbreak

As beautiful

The breaking of a heart

Is the restoration of a mind

And how naive was I

To get stabbed by the one

I handed the knife

The new found lack of trust

Is the foundation of awareness

Never missing

A beating heart is a open wound

Haunting sky of stars

Singing to the moon

Flying pieces and parts

Dancing to the tune

A lonely toy

A pack of wolfs

Married daisies

Following hooves

A dream I dreamt

Nights ago

A hollow mattress

Sleeping alone

My eyes closed tight

As the butterflies

Head to the moon

A lonely toy, pack of wolves

Married daisies following hooves

Wistful noise

A grateful girl

Herd of horses

Thorns without roses

Divorced planets

Running away from the tune

"The silence. This very silence. That has gone on for months. This silence is the loudest in my head it has ever been. The silence between us. The strangers we have become. Is it the worst crime you've ever committed? Or am I truly dumb?

The Discourse. The very Discourse, that we used to have. Lingers. Creeps. Barges in as I brush my teeth, as watch the professors hand move across the white board, as I eat, talk, drive, walk. It Barges in throughout my greatest daydreams, forcing a remberance of my worst nightmare. Oh the jealousy I feel towards you. To be able to inhale and exhale without thinking of the words you once told me.

I think you are cruel, genuinely mean. I know you are a liar, but I do not know who you were lying to. I don't know if I ever truly met you because you were not who you shown me to be.

Remember the discourse. The very Discourse, the words you yourself told me. I got to admit, It’s a beautiful lie. The yearning thought of your apology

It's a hopeless void, knowing you don't miss me.

Do you remember the words? That came from your tongue. An inching spider to mother a web of lies.

I am thankful we do not speak. Because speaking to you again is the concept of failure, it is stepping on a nail barefoot, it is expired milk and projectile vomit. It is being the only person to laugh at my joke. It is digressing. But there is one thing I want you to know. Karma is laughing at my jokes too, she'll find you. I hope you get everything you deserve - but I hope I don't hear a word about it."

The first boy who called me beatiful,

ended up being the worst guy I ever met.

so no, you do not love me.

My body is the guideline for boys.

My heart is the instruction manual.

they throw away.

You don't love me.

you love the idea of my hair.

falling on your face

as I remove my lips from yours

You love my softness.

the idea of making me

You love the way my body.

could benefit yours

You don't love me.

Never missing that a beating heart

is an open wound.

You don't love me.

You just wish you could.

One blue sock

in a house of 5 greens

no balance

no equity

promises casted through the laundry.

but one blue sock

still feels lonely.

cause green socks

itchy material

socks

rocks

cuts

holes

rips

one blue sock