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i’m afraid i must confess i inherited my mother’s rage & the mother-rage that came before her & all the mother-rage that raced down every branch of our tangled up family tree. - nothing can extinguish me.
red lipstick: an external sign of internal fire. - we tried to warn you.
red lipstick: battle cry. battle cry. battle cry. - we tried to warn you II.
in our bellies: fire fire fire & sometimes not much else. - these are the real hunger games.
in our hands: embers embers embers just waiting for the opportunity to ignite. - catching fire is so, so easy.
sometimes your demons will be men who show dimples when they say “thank you” & open doors for every approaching stranger & send you good morning/good night texts & remember your mother’s maiden name & surprise you with good coffee on all your bad days & with the same voice he uses to tell you he loves you,
women are always born on an eclipse.
treat your body to tenderness & lavender.
i’m not ashamed to say i’m my first priority.
but your charming smirk will no longer excuse
throw flames like a girl.
somehow this is going too far.
no longer helpless.
(homage to the musical Hamilton by Lin-Manuel Miranda)
your body is made up of mostly poetry. wherever you go, you leave behind puddles of words in your wake.
we need your traumas, we need your anger,
we need the story
we need that woman-rage-fire only you can provide, so write. write. write.
