- did you really think you’d get to mourn the house you set aflame?
i don’t need you
to write my story.
i write it
e v e r y d a y
& you couldn’t
even translate
the fucking
punctuation.
- she.
ready for a
harsh truth?
women
don’t need
your validation.
we
already have
our own.
- my self-worth shouldn’t feel like an act of bravery.
men
so often claim
we’re
mystery novels
with
collective symbolism
simultaneously
too shallow
& too difficult
for them
to ever dream of
understanding,
so instead of
taking the time to unravel
our complex plots,
they take
the easy way out—
pouring gasoline over us,
flicking
matches over
their shoulders,
&
laughing as they
walk away.
- call us alexandria.
following
in the
footsteps
of that
fool
icarus,
the men
were
tempted
to fingertip-graze
our impressive
flames
& had
the nerve
to be surprised
when their
manmade
wax wings
m
e
l
t
e
d.
- but try not to overreact, darling.
don’t you know
a woman’s anguish
could cause
e x p l o s i o n s
in other
dimensions?
- if you don’t, you’re going to find out.
burn whoever tries to burn you.
- coven rule #2.
III. the firestorm
the lit matchsticks tumbletumbletumble their way towards us & stop dead just before the flames would lick hungrily at our toes. we squeeze our eyes shut, bracing ourselves for our violent end. the thick air reverberates with “i love you”s & “we will meet again”s, but the only thing that follows is silence. we reluctantly pry our eyes open when we hear the match-boys’ infuriated shouting in the background.
“we would never dream of letting the match-boys use us to hurt you,” the smoke murmurs soothingly to us. “shhh, don’t worry. we will make them pay for this,” it whispers again, wrapping its way up & around our bodies until we’re consumed by a protective grey barrier.
we use our combined powers to turn the matches around.
the match-boys aren’t fast enough for us.
- the third lesson in fire.
they can
hand us
folded dresses.
they can
gift us
virgin wings.
they can
force on us
their names.
they can
lock us in
small rooms.
they can
thieve
our words.
they can
attempt to take
our choices, too,
but the one thing
they can never
steal?
this
fierce
determination.
- what june taught me.
(homage to The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood)
society
wrapped
a corset
around us,
fisted
the strings
& pulled
tight
as if
tuning
a new
violin,
&
until we
cut them
away
&
pull out
the
bones
we will
never discover
who we
truly are.
- unlearn this normalized self-hatred.
we can
be skinny
& we can
be content,
but
being skinny
is not the
same thing
as being content.
- we must come home from this everlasting battle.
i appreciate:
I. every roll.
II. every scar.
III. every acne mark.
IV. every extra pound.
V. every stretch mark.
VI. every misplaced hair.
VII. every bit of cellulite.
VIII. the only body i have.
- things i still struggle to say & that’s okay.
if
you can’t
root for
yourself,
you don’t
just
cut down
your tree
in order
to spite
the
ground.
no—
you breathe,
step back,
& give yourself
the
necessary
room
to flourish.
- from the grimoire of the green witch.
it’s
more than
okay
to
wake up
with the
overwhelming urge
to cover up
all the mirrors.
self-love
is not
an instant
nor an
overnight
evolution,
but
at least try
to open up
the windows
to let the breeze in
every once in awhile.
- a witch knows mirrors do sometimes lie.
sip
the silky
elixir
from my
cupped
palms.
go on,
take as
much
or as little
as you
need.
let it
guide you
into a
grand
love affair
with yourself
until
the love
becomes so
second nature
you need it
no more.
here,
we’ll drink together.
bottoms up.
- self-love potion.
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