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standing.

July 3, 2018

“Female” is a verb these days.

An action word.

An indicator of unrest,

of constant and necessary motion.

Rote behaviors have become revolutionary acts:

waking up in the morning,

making coffee,

buttering toast.

All tiny protests.

A quiet persistent resistance.

Each moonrise a soft

sweet

victory.

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when you're a world away.

November 14, 2017

Lavender:

fragrant, 

fateful,

when you walk through the door.

Lavender that blossoms from the thin, small space between your skin and your sinuses,

that chuckles as it

floats across the room and

curls itself around my ankles,

my thighs,

my collarbones,

planting itself,

finally,

in my body's identical delicate space:

flashes of lilac,

of amethyst,

of orchid, of maroon.

My vision is filtered,

starry and

celestial.

I want

more,

I want mauve,

I want periwinkle,

pomegranate,

magenta.

And I want you, 

my constant reminder to

color outside the lines.

 

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sound.

October 11, 2017

Oh, the RAGE I feel over this. The foggy post-traumatic haze that I've been swimming through for the past few days, buried so deep in my being that I COULDN'T FIGURE OUT WHY I COULDN'T STOP CRYING. The brave beautiful women who CONTINUE to step forward. The stories that make my hands shake, that make my mind race and my heart pound out of my chest and tell me I'm not safe,

not safe,

not safe,

and all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the storm to pass.

not safe,

not safe,

not safe,

ringing in my ears even as I lie, safe and loved as I could possibly be next to my husband in bed at night. Because nighttime has been the hardest for me for the twelve years that this elephant has sat on my chest. Because nighttime is when I'm vulnerable and quiet and defenseless against the technicolor wave of memory that washes over me and leaves me shaking or

sobbing or

sweating or

squeezing the pillow so tight my fingers start to cramp or

screaming because my heart is splintered into the millions of tiny pieces that my sisters help me carry as they share their stories,

their scars,

their strength:

my sisters the statistics,

my sisters the silenced,

my sisters the survivors.

We'll let the light in through the cracks. We'll lean on each other. We'll quietly continue turning lead into gold. We'll be soft and gentle and patient with our bodies as they rile against this news, these men, the monster-in-chief. We'll persist,

nevertheless.

#yesallwomen

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digestion.

August 13, 2017

I have this rage that sits in my belly like a popcorn kernel,

small,

round,

vibrating.

Every time I turn on the news, I gasp for breath and open my mouth,

accidentally feeding it,

hot oil swirling down my throat,

growing the seed and

growing the seed

until it pops,

and exists in its new form, three times its original size. 

It aches, it itches, it 

multiplies, until I have a collection of them, a 

veritable cineplex's worth of foreign objects

taking up space in my system, 

my stomach,

my body,

which is hardly even mine these days.

These days, when I'm fragmented and

micromanaged by a broken system and

so

fucking

furious,

anger seeping through my veins like

poison.

A belly full of sodium,

a meal I didn't ask for,

force-fed to the point of bursting.  

 

 

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