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Imperfect Poet

Poetry, short stories and other things.

Month

March 2018

May flowers bloom

It was a hot summer morning

but I found Autumn

under the trees

as I stood ankle deep

in their honeycomb leaves.

And when I saw you

the winter in your eyes

brought rain to the Spring in mine

and I prayed

that forests would grow

in the muddiest part of your mind

and that flowers would bloom there.

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My legs

were not made for you

to touch

or to look at

My legs

were not made for you

so why does it bother you

that I have hair there?

Why do I have to consult you

about the hair growing on

my legs?

-why should I listen to your opinions about what is not yours?

This body is mine

Do not touch me
like this body is yours rightfully.
Do not look at me
like you can see what lies beneath my clothes.
Take your hungry eyes
off of me
and do not “mistake” my
no for
maybe
because maybe I’m not playing-hard-to-get
maybe I’m not being stubborn
maybe your touch discomforts me
maybe your hand on my leg
makes me feel dirty-
like I am merely something to touch
and not to be understood.
Maybe I am not teasing,
maybe I am uncomfortable.
Has that crossed your mind?
Would you even care if I told you?

Do not assume that I enjoy your embrace
or your attention
do not mistake my kindness for an invitation.

Do not touch my body like it is yours
rightfully,
because this body is mine,
it is my home, my temple
This body was mine
before the beginning of time
before the starts were born
my body was made as a host for my soul
it was made for me.
It was never made to be touched so carelessly
by someone who thought
that it was theirs
before it was mine.

It is time
society
that you teach your children
that admiration is not love,
exploration is not love,
infatuation is not love.
But respect,
respect might be the truest form of love.

It is time
society
that you teach your children
to respect
rather than claim
to ask before they take
to think before they do
and to love without expectation from me or my body.

I am not a prize.

Maybe I am not interested.

Maybe I like the challenge
he says-
a smirk on his face.

You like the challenge?
I want to ask.
This is not a challenge
for what will you win?
I am not, nor will I ever be
a prize to be won.
I am not some compensation that you receive
for all your effort.
I am not the medal that you
receive at the end of the race.
I am the water that you crave
that you need
as you run.

I am a woman.

I am a forest
filled with trees
and flowers
and colours.
I am beautiful and I am brilliant.

I am a woman.
I am a force of nature.
I am a rainstorm.
I am a flood.
I will drown out all of your words.
I am the wind.
I am a hurricane.
I will blow you away.
I will blow down your stereotypes
and ideas of what you think
ought to be yours.

I am not some beautiful, precious,
fragile, senseless thing
for you to acquire.

I am a woman.
I am not I prize.
I am art.
I am a masterpiece.

And you

you will always merely
be

the boy that thought
he could win me.

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