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.

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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

dieting tea.

“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 …

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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 …

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Creative | Posted by Halee K on 06/24/2011

Feeling Beautiful

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.

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