Poem #204

She was a fire born on a hot summer day.
Her heart was kind but too exposed so it
became a liability. She realized to late
what kind of place the world is and somehow
the fire got burned. There’s ice running
through her veins now. The fire is dying out.

Typewriter Poetry

Poem #186

She finally got to hear those words.
You offered her the moon and the stars
and the sun and the whole world but she refused.
You’ve been gone for so long and she
became stronger and capable of walking alone.
The darkness wasn’t the big bad wolf trying to swallow her.
She made a friend out of it.

Poem #174

Girl, it’s time to have more faith in yourself
and take less bullshit from the world.
It’s time to mend what was broken in you
and stop looking for remedy in other people.
It’s time to give yourself the love you
have been trying to find in the wrong arms.
Only you can lift yourself up and you
should always be there for you at nightfall.

Poem #111

This is to the men calling me paranoid:

Every single catcall feels like someone is
using a rusty razor to peel my skin off.
I get tired telling myself to just look forward
and not react while the honk of a car is
tearing through my ears. I beg for them
not to stop, I beg for them to keep driving,
I beg for them not to turn the car around
and try to get me inside and try to get inside of me.

Do you know that the words spoken about
our body and what should be done to it
tears through us like fire through ice?
If we walk the streets at night and someone
comes too close to us, someone tries to take
advantage of us we hear their voices already:
“It was her fault. She shouldn’t walk alone at night”

As if we weren’t free, as if the word female doesn’t
come with any dignity, as if being born with a vagina
makes us inferior, as if we shouldn’t be scared of a
society where rape culture is a thing, a trending
Twitter topic of the week.

This is to the men calling me paranoid: Why did your
kind give me a reason to be like this?