Creative | Posted by Melanie Z on 04/8/2011 My Body Is
My body is not an object.
It is not another’s to sculpt or scrutinize.
It is not the canvas on which you paint your expectations and standards.
It is not your playground.
My body is not your project.
It is not where you decide.
It can’t be told what to wear, how to change, when to be available.
Its boundaries are not determined by the others.
My body is my home.
It is where I write my story.
It is where and how and why I reject your critiques and limitations.
It is rebellion in itself.
My body is a revolution.
It is the personification of my soul.
It is the vehicle through which I dance, riot, love, explore.
It is my choice.
It is my reclamation.
It is ever …
Pop-Culture | Posted by Josie T on 02/12/2011 Saturday Vids: Katie Makkai “Pretty”
I came across this video while researching performance poetry for a competition I’m involved in at school, and I was floored by how truthful and beautifully written and performed it is.
Creative | Posted by Elise F on 12/10/2010 Phantasm
what do i dream of, while i’m lying alone in my bed,
swallowed by the darkness,
comforted only by the branches whispering into my window
i can’t fall asleep.
i see the faces, of all the girls
who have slipped through the barrier of our planet
see them crying, see them screaming
see them gasping and thrashing
i see them so well,
it is almost as if the images are being projected onto the dark ceiling
and i can’t fall asleep.
the feeling suffocates me, grabs me
its strong fingers tearing at my skin,
letting the darkness get to me.
my ears buzz, my throat starts closing
and i squeeze my eyes as tight as i can
knowing if i let tears stream down my flushed face,
it’s a sign …
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 11/24/2010 Excerpt from a Fairytale
Girls should have exoskeletons, he told her.
Their ribs could be can openers.
My parents never touched each other enough, she said.
He traced her stomach like a coloring book, stopping
And starting to a thousand imaginary traffic lights.
“Happiness is a cliché,” he told her.
“I want to feel in black and white,” she said.
She wanted her heart to print receipts.
Their menus rest on the table like slain birds.
She garnished her soul like it was a thing to be consumed.
Every human being is waiting, she said,
At the bus stop of someone else’s
soul. wanting to be taken to Paradise.
So stop waiting, he said.
He imagined her soul bobbing away, like a balloon.
She wanted to kill him and press him into the
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 11/19/2010 Faster Tonight
Girls always believe in
things told in whispers. And the
circuits connecting tangential fields of
stars and fingertips holed
in alphabets slip across rained in minds in a circumcision
I’ve invented you, carved you out of traffic lights
to become beautiful–what kills me is the way birds always
fly south, down, and the way their beaks preclude
the possibility of kissing.
I’ve invented the colors underneath your clothes and
the things you could say under street lamps, erased a thousand illuminated mosquitos
But this isn’t a drawing class and the symmetry of sidewalks
is sketched to be beautiful only to insects.
Let’s say the stars are in your eyes, because
beauty is always imagined, and the lights are too
dim by the mattress anyway. Let’s say the moon …
Creative | Posted by Hannah S on 10/22/2010 Be Yourself
I can see your accusing eyes
I can hear your insults behind my back
Don’t you know the world is telling you lies?
They’re telling you that I’m fat
They’re telling you that you’re not good enough
They’re telling you to wear your hair long
That to be sexy you need to own a thong
That you’ll hear a way to find love in this song
That if you buy this your troubles will be gone
And it’s all lies
Look into my eyes and tell me what you really feel
Deep inside, they ate away at you
Played their games with you
Now they’re done with you
Oh but they came back for you
And you don’t know what to do
They tell you to eat this pill
Creative | Posted by Sonia L on 10/15/2010 Blazing Stink of an August Sidewalk
Blazing stink of an august sidewalk. My fingers my eyeballs are grey with the newsprint of this morning’s sins and a heavy shamed sickness knowing I am born with Certain Inalienable Rights: to have legs. To speak read write words on a page to love without fearing the circle of empty faces bodies hating reasonless shoulder to shoulder, sure in blamelessness hands grope for stones. Would they break my glasses first? Or my breasts, badge of my station, proof in the flesh of my wickedness. The fashion models have blood in their hair.
They told me I was my own to give or not. They loosed my foremothers from their ovens handed them ballots and birth control But I was created unequal The girls who I was not born learn …
Creative | Posted by Jayna J on 09/3/2010 Expectations
supposed to be,
supposed to be
supposed to be
supposed to be
-at least, what I AM supposed to be.
I guess, supposed to be
I am not
what I am —-
[supposed to be]
if I am not this girl,
what can I be?