Monday, June 17, 2013

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.

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