Mar 08

Becoming a Feminist

I like to feel my words, 
scratch them up with fingernails,
pull them apart with whispers,
crack them open 
and squeeze their essence 
out onto my palm. 

I taste my words 
before saying them:
weigh the sweet undertones
to the bitter taste 
of forgotten curses.

Sing it as if you
never got to anymore.
Taste your words but
don't speak them. 
Trace your feelings 
with a golden ink 
and hide it in your shoe.
Don't tell you.

Slide these thoughts 
down the bottom part
of your consciousness
and sleep with them
under your pillow; 
worshiping is not the word. 

Slip through the glass
between too late
and too soon. 

"Feminist," they say. 
Dictator" I counter. 

(Don't tell me all the things I cannot be.)