literature

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hedonophobe's avatar
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Literature Text

I am easily confused and often incorrect,
my routines are something amiss in that I
cannot stick to them, and I'm still not
too sure how to walk without my shoulders
pulled back, my stride filled with the harsh
taps of my heels, my eyes daring men to come
and test a hand, a turn, a try at me and see
if they can return with no limp or bruise.

(The days roll past with no markings in its
wake—all that it gives is a way to see, a way
to feel, a morning and an afternoon, a dawn and
a dusk, a sunrise and a sunset - but what makes
today a different today; which many yesterdays
is speaking; how is tomorrow a tomorrow
when nothing changes?)

Memories tell me of what has been and, perhaps,
what can be, which is why faces flash by
the random men with their loud voices and
louder egos, baiting me with street corners and
club entrances; they do not know the art of
the prey, but they only see predator here, my body
just another rolling day, and their taunts grate upon
something wild and they all inhale when I finally turn.

(I look up to the sun and see nothing but
a lonely star, so vast and unending—except that
it is not and it is only my eyes, these green
tricksters that giggle in the dark, that make everything
so much more; and I am always too confused, and the days
never feel real, and my memories are often fake, and I
have never claimed to be a follower of the goddess
I wish I was - that heavenly body of something more
than a queen, but only men bow before royalty
and I am no man.)

So here I am, still the lost child, still the sunken woman
behind the sun, made out to be smaller than what
I am, and these men know nothing of teeth or nails—
nothing of fangs and claws; these men do not see
living anger, can not tell that my teeth are clenched to
hide the darkness that lives in my throat, will never
learn that every woman hides a knife on her thigh
and that she only waits for the opportunity to use it -
so I use it, my knife my middle finger, my keys poking
between the slots of my fist, and I become more than
a day, a lonely star, and I walk away with their voices in
my back and my stomach crowded with their words, their
own suns, and I return home full.
This is my entry for Live-Love-Write's writing prompt: "The only thing worse than one is none."

This is my attempt at an abstract concept that fills the prompt in a not-so literal way. I wanted to write about myself, stating that I am One, I am not None, so why would I let myself be treated as if I were nothing? I am here and whatever I am fighting against (in this case, cat-calling men) will know that I am just as loud as they are. So, yes, it sucks to have to fight, but I find fighting to be so much more than just letting it be.
© 2017 - 2024 hedonophobe
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aquagirl7's avatar
I don't know how to express how much I appreciate you writing this. It's poignant, and I would be the dork cheering you on as you wrote this.