So, I haven't written in a while

I have no excuses but this: I have been devouring the Game of Thrones series, and I tend to adapt my writing style and subject to the author I currently read. I don't particularly wish to write like Brotimes Martin--mostly, because I don't want to write about gratuitous saucy time when I know my mother reads this.

Alright, so I wrote this poem a while back. The cast of the Vagina Monologues did a photo shoot in March, and my friend asked me about my photo. I told him that we had to dress like our Vagina Warrior. He asked what that meant, and I honestly had no response for him. So, as I am wont to do, I sat down with some Sara Bareilles and wrote out exactly who my Vagina Warrior is, and how I allow her to participate in this absurd life that I call my own. I have a recording of me performing it, but my delivery could use a little work. Perhaps, I will work on that.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy it.

sea glass

My vagina warrior lived inside of me

pressed down and sodden

like the dregs of yesterday’s coffee grounds.

On a ship in a glass bottle,

I admired her—

             A piece of decoration.

The beliefs of not good

             enough

                                        and

not beautiful

             enough

chain her to the mast,

splayed her, restrained her

in a way that rendered her

             helpless

             defenseless     and

             naked

to the onslaught of

wave after wave of perfection—

             perception.

She will never be

             tall.

She will never be

             thin.

She will never be

             beautiful.

My vagina warrior fought these

             shackles.

She rallied the

             force of her arms,

the

             power of her legs

and the cuffs opened

not with a

             Click,

but with the

             Unadulterated

             Wild

sound of the oppressed.

Enough

The sonic sound shattered the glass.

She refused my

             submissions

my

             control

my

             standards.

She defied definition.

She created discomfort

to make me feel.

             something      anything

She turned to me,

not with rage

but with

             pity--

because I’d kowtowed to

rules     and     opinions    and

             external pressures

changed my self to fit into

society’s

glass bottle—broken

though it may be—

with its missing pieces

and jagged edges

meant to cut me

and keep me from feeling

             whole.

Its shards scattered among the

rubble.

There is no way to glue it back together—

             whole

My vagina warrior stepped inside of

me,

kissed my edges smooth,

and together we became

             sea glass,

living wholly and beautifully as

             One.