my uterus is not a biohazard

My uterus is not a biohazard //OR// Why I am going to get birth control wearing a red supersuit flaunting a red period blood smudge.  The blood that pours, trickles, gushes and drips from my uterus is considered a biohazard. You know, the kind that they put in those sterile red plastic containers with the red cutting scythe…

their multitudes

A million asteroids of all genders called woman. Those are me. You raise an eyebrow. I raise mine. Must I remind you what woman means? Woman is the shaping of a skin, it is a face turned towards the wind, it is resilience. Woman is remembering oppression directed at that skin and that face. Woman…

to my heart melt people

[note: this post started the day after graduation and finished now]  Yesterday, wilting in sweat, to cheers I did not hear for nerves, and with feet bare to feel the ground beneath me, I walked across a stage, accepted a diploma case and hurried back to my seat. I guess that was my moment, or something….

~disgusting~ bodies, speak thy power!

or: gross is the new fierce and i love rupi kaur My sweat stains and I have become intimate through long fellowship and shared struggle. I have leg hair and armpit hair and sporadic chin hairs. I have stretch marks on my thighs. Once every 50 days or so, gooey blood flows out of me for a week straight. My…

the f word

failure I. such an unassuming                          word, that such an unassuming mind-bending word such an unassuming mind-bending word that permeates my psyche claws into those ¿forgotten? cobwebbed corners of             my soul and whispers to me that failure will…

don’t you dare call me beautiful

We are our fear and hope and courage and pain and love and doubt and anger and salty, dripping tears mixed with snot, sweat and redemption. To recognize us for who we appear to be instead of who we are actively being is to deny, in a way, the truth of who we experience ourselves to be.

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my heart hurts from pounding deeply as I turn and toss roll and squirm restlessly the whole night through my heart hurts as it has beat to a seeming thousand similarly sleepless sunrises anxiety’s drill sargeant my alarm clock rat-a-tat-tatting deep into my exhausted bones my mind whirs, clicks and grumbles jostled forward by irregular…

rush /\ pressure

“There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence to which the idealist most easily succumbs: activism and overwork. The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many…

Crying in the Embrace of the Great Lakes

As snow drifts into winter wind and winter wind caresses snow into shapely domes, I cry for the igloo I once built around myself in a north-facing bedroom in a small Wisconsin town. I cry for a no-in-nor-out igloo, lacking a trapdoor for letting in love’s light. I cry for the sleepless thrashing nights spent…

hypochondria

I. being a hypochondriac is a feminist issue there must be something wrong with me                         wrong with us always and especially when most functional for what else are we? we, such sorry, dependent creatures if not to need, if not for always needing      nurturing  …

s.p..a…c…..e……………… [part the first]

My birthday gathering has wound down a bit by now. The background noise from adjacent conversations is no longer shout-inducing. People have relaxed beautifully into each other despite (or perhaps because?) of the fact that they’re wearing ridiculous outfits and drinking hard apple cider on a cool Saturday September evening. I find myself standing in…

Cotton-Eye Joe, bell hooks and National Coming Out Day

It’s National Coming Out Day and all of these self-prescribed labels zinging around the internet are making me anxious. Labels feel like the women’s shirts with shoulders too narrow for actual upper body strength and the undressing stares of lounging men as I walked Valparaíso’s streets. Labels feel like the first time I put on…