Creative | Posted by Saskia G on 04/3/2015
The curve of you,
where the cheek meets the thigh,
is sweeter than lips strawberry
in a tinted photo
which is not your own anymore.
the place of skin wrapped by summer
clothes stretched as you run.
of grass at the back of your neck
and sweat on your hairline,
in its stickiness trailing down,
down into the gentle creases
circling the mounds.
You create your own humidity.
Trap it here now,
to use it later or maybe
find it in memory
at that party where you sent the calling,
just sitting, testing,
like smoke in your favorite princess movies
and you were asked to dance.
The first time is power.
Twine them out, those summer tendrils,
use them only when you wish…
Creative | Posted by Georgia P on 08/29/2014
Shut up he barked
Sit down he wined
Raise your voice he howled
Raise your cup to me he giggled
Make pure and tender love to me he snapped
Pick me up in your arms and tell me how to change he snaked
Shut up he whispered, into my ear on this cold, cold night
Pull out the chairs when they sit down he commanded
Read my mind he yearned
When my mother comes cover your bruises and show me that smile he snickered
When my father comes cover your chest and cross your legs he murmured
Know me like no one has ever known me, care for me like no one has before we wished
to each other
Shut up, he pounded into me, his sweaty hands slurping my …
Creative | Posted by Riya S on 08/30/2013
The Universal Sisterhood of Puberty
Pain dripping down my legs.
Bumps growing from my chest.
Doubled up. Feel the heat.
Mum, I NEED something to eat!
Checking out the guys,
Just when did they turn out so nice?
Look at myself in mirror again-
I look good!
Call me hormonal. Call me weird.
I’m feeling sick and tired
Of the pain of my red
And the sore swellings on my chest.
Now I’m staring at the bathroom floor.
I don’t call it a sickness anymore.
It’s my invite to a worldwide party
Of girls celebrating Puberty.
Creative | Posted by Fran H on 01/18/2013
Feminism Is Not A Word We Use In Polite Society
They wanted to be blondes, all of them, at some point in their lives.
Natural honey or not, they believed when
Marilyn cooed, old, white male screenwriters her puppeteers,
“Gentlemen prefer blondes”
the line delivered with a seductive smile,
as Norma Jean Baker, a smart brunette who loved James Joyce,
drowned in her persona, hiding her soul with peroxide and carefully exposed necklines.
They hide themselves too, trying to be socially acceptable, swallowing their opinions along with the latest
“Look like Barbie!” it promises on the box,
but Housewife Barbie, Mother Barbie, Teacher Barbie, Nurse Barbie,
traditional, safe occupations, nothing like Barbie’s
dangerous incarnations, President Barbie, Astronaut Barbie, CEO Barbie, Scientist Barbie, pushed to the sidelines, hidden under the bed, coated in dust. Nobody ever played with them …
Creative | Posted by Nicole T on 07/15/2011
The Dishwasher’s Daydream
The sink-washed dishes clap thunderously as you dry them
against one another, as if attempting to ignite a fire between
two friendly sticks. The result: a broken dish
or another proclamation that “This cup…plate…bowl is cracking.”
The washed skin on my hand is growing apart, like the leather on
a cow’s back, and it goes down the drain, and gets cozy with the debris
along with the blood that came from cleaning knives too quickly.
You scurry around the kitchen, telling me about your day
as you shove the dishes into their proper places. The plates go
above the larger plates, and ceramic cups go into a different cupboard
next to the other things that aren’t identical in size and shape.
And if I were a bowl, I would be …
Creative | Posted by Halee K on 06/24/2011
I can shoot lightning bolts from my fingertips
Poetry spouts like jewel-encrusted bullets
From my chapped lips
Soul shining like a beacon
Behind my eyes
Creating tiny worlds
With each sleepy sigh.
Beautiful is a fecund seed inside
Empowering all, despite the lies.