Photographs and screengrabs on Instagram,
Exist to supposedly remind us
That bodies are beautiful.
The hair we sprout, not unlike roots spreading strength
Is a way of saying in clear motherly voices,
That skin needs nourishment
As does nature, as do our male-folk.
But women, for as long as history has been written
Will either narrate a tale of their bodies
Or give themselves up to silence.
Unlike men in the gallows, we silly beings are sentenced to life.
Men, of course go on about minds and philosophy
About how “they think therefore they are”
While we, the laughably gentler sex
Struggle with our anatomy, only to
Wake up in the middle of the night to shriek,
And later shush our voices into faded pillow covers
At the thought of sex, the dread of touch.
This is not a serenade for our skeletons covered with browns and blacks,
Neither is it an angry rant,
nor a hopeful prayer:
Fading along with the polluted mist
clouding over us all.
This is a truth, one which coats our leathery skins with dread…as we
As I weep. At the thought of my frame.
Waiting to be rescued by beauty
A concept again, invented by men.
Men think about their existence because Descartes asked them to.
He never spoke to me. I am not a rationalist.
I am, like most women, simply sentenced to exist.
(to me.)
asifwordssuffice 