My Kind

Against her bed, fingers tapping, bad pop blasting, this is it. 

This is safe space, a makeshift community. 

Worlds colliding

The girl on my right, our arms touching, she’s who kept me strong through text book breakdowns and walked across the night beach starring up at the lights of San Francisco across the bay. 

At my feet, the girl who shares a wall with me that I knock against to see if she is there,who dances with me in rooms too hot with music too loud. 

3 writers. 

I always find my kind; smart, driven, ink fuelled females. We know our kind. We fall in and out of theatre, dance to strong female anthems, secret and not so secret, Taylor Swift lovers, the conscious consumers. 

We are of bright red lipstick, hawk eyes and excellent at getting lost. We hare differing degrees of tidiness-clothes everywhere to shirts organized in all colours. We hold notebooks clutched against our chest and sometimes leave them on the floors of cars. We grow our roots deep, but we always notice clouds. We are idealistic. But how could we not be, when words run through our veins?

I always find my kind.

We always find our kind.

I Do Not Want To Be A Statement

There are nights when I no longer want to feel female

nights when I sleep in a long shapeless robe

so there are no curves to be seen, my body is soft and shapeless

These are the nights when I have been too reminded of my female form

days where my bra has pulled too tight, left claw marks

parties where boys touch at that which they have no right to

believe they have ownership to the movement of our hips

yelling comments at my beautiful friends, 

afraid of females who value and claim their bodies for themselves and no one else 

I remember how my form is politicized

and I do not want to be a statement tonight

I do not want to be topography

I do not want to align myself with any party, with any megaphone

I do not want to have to be a feminist right now

I do not want to have to be anything.

I just want to be a human, to have a body

These are the nights I sleep in a long shapeless robe

one of the few moments of my life where no one is telling me I need to be anything

where there is no agenda 

besides a human form

where my body is nothing

besides mine

nothing besides a sleeping shape. 

I do not want to be a statement

I do not want to have to be anything tonight

but human

I want my body to be nothing 

but human

but mine

Illustration by Lina Kusaite

Banish The Thought

Banish the thought

banish the thought of

beautiful inaccessible boys

who don’t readily express emotions

and wear their opinions openly

and hold friendships tightly

Banish the thought

banish the thought of

inadequacy and never good enough

and if you were a sun

I’d be a sulking moon

and this stomach is too soft 

Banish the thought

banish the thought of 

constant survival, I keep on

just surviving, deep breaths, deep breaths

when reality is so different

so full of breakthroughs and catalysts

and fierce new ideas

Banish the thought

Banish the thought of 

proving intelligence brashly

cravenly making points

to make my intellectual stand point

HERE I AM WORLD AND I AM INTELLIGENT

Those that you admire most, wear their intelligence quietly

remember this, remember this

Banish the thought

Banish the thought of 

not doing enough, too slow, too inward focused

you were never one to rush and ram 

You will do what you need to do

and more, 

and much, much more.

Banish the thought

Banish the thought

of emotions that are not requited

dreams that are not substantiated

hopes that are hurtful

Banish the thought

Banish the thought of all

that does not honor and love you

that does not come in healing

and mercy and wonder. 

Banish the thought.

Hands

She has the most beautiful hands I believe I have ever seen. They are small, as small as a dolls. And they are not soft hands. They are rough from her hours in the garden. She keeps her fingernails short and clean. She does not use lotion, says it isn’t good for the skin. I have bought her all natural, unscented lotion but she never opened the bottle. She says her hands should speak of the work and the weather, just like God made them to do. I do not argue with her. I stopped as soon as I left my teenage years behind and developed half a mind. She may look like a china doll, but my mother is an iron ox. Once her mind is made up, there is no changing it. But either way, sometimes I can’t help wishing she would take better care of her little hands. 

~~

She had to leave art school because she bought booze for the cute guy next door with her fake I.D. She looked like trouble, shaved hair, belly pierced and undeniably cool. She made horny jokes and wore dark lipstick. She had long lovely legs and she was overtly comfortable with her hips. She was a film student and she was good at it. She had her own camera and she cared it proudly around, slung over her round strong shoulders. You could tell by looking at her that she was into guys...mostly. When she was kicked out none of us were surprised but we still all cried. Especially when we saw her cry. The night she left we watched her film on the wall while sitting on the lawn. It was of hands, hands moving slowly, hands touching and holding and melding, the curves and lines and palms. They pressed and kissed, for yes, hands can kiss. They moved over each other and under each other and I had to turn away, for up to that moment, I had not known that hands could be so sensual, so sexual. But she had, which was why she was the sort of student to be kicked out of art school, while I barely made any friends. 

~~

He likes to pick up my hands, compare sizes. He always has, since he began to grow taller, till I could no longer wrestle him and pin him to the ground. He is in complete marvel of his body, watching his arms and chest strengthen. He takes his shirt off whenever he can, the proud peacock. He struts with the plumage of a teenage boy. And he picks up my hands whenever I sit next to them. He peers at their tininess,wraps his fingers over mine, exclaims in delight every time. His hands are long and thin. His hands help him dribble the balls, carry his surfboard, he hangs car keys from them loosely. My hands serve their purposes too, but they do not reach a scale on a piano and he wonders at this fact, proud of his growing body. He is proud to watch himself tower over me. I try to remain silent to the fact.

Wish Tree

I want a tree to hang secrets and poems from
huddle warm bodies around
so they breath in its scent
read the words and paper returning 
to original form
find twine and wrap it round its boughs
write in bold ink
I wish to always love myself
come to appreciate my body’s soft nature
the squeaks that fall into my voice
my wild eyebrows
wrinkled fingers
I wish to look at people and really look at them
pull them inside
and feel their heart beats
know why they continue to wonder
and are their souls intact?
I want a tree to age gently with me
four years, it’s not a very long time in our lives
but still, we may grow taller, grow more concentric circles
drop leaves, stretch into other trees and trunks
I want a tree who keeps my secrets
who accepts vague poetry
and abstract concepts
who understands sometimes wishing on stars
is just too impractical
and I need some grounding 

Trees Around My Bones

I have roots growing from my feet

I have roots growing from my feet

I have trees twisting around my bones

I have roots growing inward

coming in, making way

I have roots spreading like new veins

leaves flowing through this blood

I have a forest growing inward

trees twisting round my bones

All this new growth and its finally

making its way home

all this new beauty 

and it's finally making its way home

roots growing from my feet

roots growing in my bones 

Look inside

You can see it all happening 

look in my eyes

you can see it all happening

a new body system in here

a baby jungle growing up

You could get lost in here

in this body

thoughts could curl up into the branches

and sleep, sleep, sleep

I get lost in here

in this body

in these new sprouts

I can smell dew and dirt

and me

I can smell me

And if feels good

it feels like home

I’m finally filling up this body with trees

filtering the oxygen in here

this feels like home

trunks wrapped around my skull

I look at the mirror 

and I see a home

because I have a forest growing inside

this body

I have trees to climb

and touch

and feel

and even cut

I have places to explore in here

and trees wrapped around my bones 

So welcome home

It’s about time

you let it grow in here 

let trees wrap around your soul

As It Concerns

As it concerns

Bring me the sunset in a cup

bring your stories and the misplaced eye glances

give me your insecurities and I will wear them gently

around my neck

wrapped along the tip of my fingers

quietly, I won’t let them speak

I promise that my depths are reachable

that I’m equal part scared

to brave

I don’t know what it is that

attracts me

to your glass jar contents

your cloudy days

I’m not quite sure who you are

But I know that I want you

to bring me your whispers in warm canisters

your songs in willow reeds

Tell me the first time you realized

how wonderfully imperfect this world is

Tell me what part of yourself you find beautiful

and what you try to hide from mirrors and probing thoughts

And have you ever taken hold of the moon, held it in your hands

and wondered why it looks so sad?