i gave up rain for faucets,
built my own cave to
dwell inside.
i take weapons to my hair and
brushes to my
(painted) face.
baby's milk's made
in a factory, and i'm
not talkin' 'bout my body.
i even grow my own food faster
than you ever could.
mother earth, i am
not your machine.

definitely not as free-flowing as what i generally aim for, but i found it difficult to create the imagery in any kind of comfortably flowing or well-put together piece. some days, everything just feels so synthetic, and that is all i mean to portray.



bow in hair, and
skirt falling over daddy's lap, she
is told she is

barely brave enough to say
yes, skirt falling down her legs and she
just wants to hear that she's

as wise as she is wrinkled, she
is tired and worn with time, and she
is realizing she has always been


poised to soar.

other cheek turned, i am more
broken than before, still somehow
poised to soar