Not a Poet, Just a Woman Pt. 2

Apr 3

Apr 3 Not a Poet, Just a Woman Pt. 2

It’s always an experience to write about the nuances of womanhood. In part two of my series Not a Poet, Just a Woman, I hope that my fellow women and gender minorities find solace in these poems, or maybe it will be a catalyst to your own discoveries.

Larger Things

My mind is larger than my mouth,

And my mouth is larger than the words

I breathe into the air.

I have nothing more profound to say,

Only that maybe if my words were bigger than my mouth

I would be a better poet.

I would write of color:

The deep blue ripples of the lake behind my house,

The bright pink peonies growing in my garden,

Light and airy things that would make a child chuckle,

But there isn’t a lake behind my house,

Or a garden,

Or a word nearly colorful enough

To escape the sadness on the tip of my pen.

If my mouth was larger than my mind,

Maybe I could think up enough kingdoms and worlds

To find my way back to the start,

Keep my love to myself,

Maybe even round it all up

And store it in a Pandora’s box of sorts,

let it sit in my closet and collect dust,

I wouldn’t let myself fall,

Or maybe I would,

Just to become wiser, cynical some say.

I’d let my heart break over and over,

Just to prove to myself that I’m capable enough to rebuild it,

But only if my mind was bigger than my mouth.

It’s all too bad, for the words “I love you”

Are forever on the tip of my tongue.

So I let my pen run out of ink,

I let the rivers of love in my eyes run dry,

I let go of my tongue,

For it’s defiance never did me well,

I let myself fly,

Free from my mind my mouth and my words,

A free little thing,

A free bird.

Manic Pixie Dream Fuck

I’m an ideal to men. Something they can experience for a short while to make their boring 9 to 5 something of the past for a blissful moment or two.

I seduce them with a joke or an existential question— not something they’re used to— so they pretend I’m someone they could be with past a few inebriated fucks and a text every few weeks to give me just enough to keep me full from the adrenaline… until I do something that breaks the glass image they held so close for those few nights.

I go from being an ideal, to simply another problem they have to deal with. They realize that I’m just as fucked up as them. But what human being isn’t fucked up? That’s the thing though— I’m not a human to them.

I resemble a rare creature being gawked at through the iron bars of a cage— except I’m not rare at all— and neither were the times they caressed my face and looked into my eyes like they could love me— like they could really love me…

But that’s what I get for trying to strangle love out of lust.

Anatomy of a Hug

What does it feel like to be held?

To be truly held.

Not with an expectation for something more

Or a predestined goodbye.

I long for that feeling

To be so enveloped

That two hearts become one.

In sync, syncopated.

As if their bodies were

Two tiny dancers