The room is filled with women, the women that I do not know the colours of.
The room is heavy and we hold ourselves tightly, our eyes filled up with all that we do not understand, the wet hurts of the past and present.
I want to take out needles and sew our hearts back up, remove our tear ducts and feed them to wolves.
I want to take everyone up in my arms, kiss the soft hairs we spend so much time washing and brushing and chopping and cutting.
I want to dress us all in silk in cashmere, drape pearls on our collarbones.
I want to feed us books and warm soup and pizza that smears our fingers and linen napkins.
I want to send us home with big books and decorated notebooks, leather engraved and rough paged paper.
I want to hide daggers in our skirts, letter openers and gold pistols.
I want to make sure we walk into any room feeling safe, that our bodies are always respected, we feel safe in satin and short dresses and music that vibrates through our feet and dry hands.
I want to hold us all, hold the weight of our lopsided hearts and the shirts with buttons that pull at our chests.
But I am so small, a soft stomach, arms covered in red bumps, my eyes are leaded.
I hold a mug of creamed earl grey in my hands and my hands are already full.