Something isn’t right here – Candice Louisa Daquin

As a woman, you’re taught

To speak frankly, but not too loud

Consequences for girls are worse

So I learned

To whisper in a roar

And when I cried, I showed nobody

Using the tears as fertilizer

For my wild garden

I am not a person who believes cruel answers anything

why ruin someone just because you can? As a punchline?

once I was called ‘too nice’ and I am often referred to as ‘sweet’

which are probably both gentle character assassinations

I admit it is not so great being a gentle soul, because people admire

bitches, sarcasm, sass, verve (is that still a word?), spite, caustic(ism) and other

signs someone is strong, because if you are cruel

you are seen as hip in this society

even my neighbor likes it when we shoot the shit and she gets that

glassy-eyed affection for tearing people down and asks me all slurred and heady

why I never slag people off for fun

like it’s the equivalent of BBQ and book club

we covet the beast and drown the babe

when did being wicked get so hot?

Vanity Fair? Pride & Prejudice? Beowolf? The Bible?

I would if I could

move

to an island where

being kind wasn’t seen as boring

compassion wasn’t a character flaw

empathy was the dish du jour

(and you could still have a bloody mary before 4pm

come on, I never ran for saint-hood)

would it get tedious?

I don’t see why

I spend most of my life

plucking the back draft from others snide remarks

out of my fender and wondering when

it became such a thing to be an asshole

so much so we elected Presidents standing for rot

as if we need any more meanness in this world

is it the fall of Rome, Babel, or just the Kardashian?

something isn’t right here and I’d like

to get the fuck out now please

 

This Room is Not for Rent-Christine Ray

 

The Greek chorus has declared me

damaged beyond repair

incapable of a “normal” life

“better off dead” say the well-meaning citizens

than “broken”

preferring the image of the golden haired innocent child angel

comforted by a merciful God

over the living angry woman

who refuses to be silent

I try not to let these voices

rent space in my head

they are destructive tenants

who forfeit their security deposit

scrawl graffiti in red lipstick on my walls

dirty

shameful

Lolita

guilty

complicit

whore

bitch

I try not to buy into the vitriol

when they imply that my life has no meaning

that I am an abomination

a red, raw, bleeding thing they deem too unseemly to look at

unfit for polite society

“Fuck You!” I want to shout at the top of my lungs with my hands covering my ears

Some days it is hard to find the armor of my rage

when I am just so god damned tired

of having to prove over and over again

that I am worthy of continued existence

that I deserve to walk this earth

breathe the oxygen

as if I am the one who must continue to do penance

for other’s sins

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

How to know I’m a woman – Henna Sjöblom

Doubt by tsukiko-kiyomidzu

 

Last night I had a peculiar dream: I was sitting at a desk, a drawing of a pin-up model in front of me. The teacher leaned down before me and asked me how I knew I was a woman.

Of course, in the dream I started rambling about fertility and womb and not having a penis, but the question sort of stuck with me. Such an odd thing to ask. How do I know I’m a woman?

Or, more precisely, when did I know I was a woman?

I’ve always been quite oblivious of my own sex. I grew up with two younger brothers and throughout the early days of my childhood, I basked in the illusion that I was their equal, maybe even their superior. (I was the oldest, after all.)

Then I began school and older boys would stalk me, yell at me, touch me against my will and trying to herd me into corners of the schoolyard where the teachers couldn’t see us, getting me “all to themselves”. Did I know I was a woman, or a woman-to-be? Hardly. I just thought they must be extremely stupid.

Did I know I was a woman when I received my first whistles on the streets, my first unwanted advances by older men, my first offer to jump into their car on the street? Nah. I was still a girl, fiddling around, being a – what is it they call it? Cock-tease?

I convinced myself that I was going to be a woman. I bought push-up bra’s and strings, I colored my eyelashes pitch black, I got powdered and pinned down, and I said yes, covering myself in the illusion like a perfume. I learnt womanly sentences by heart – yes, yes, I don’t mind, no really, thank you for the compliment Sir, that’s so sweet of you. I was seventeen.

I am now twenty-three. Have I earned the right to call myself a woman yet? Have I gone trough enough bullshit, enough degradation and strife? How do I know? Woman seems threatening, a responsibility to assume or a price cup to keep locked in your closet forever.

Am I a woman because I tear easily, like waxed paper, barely making a noise as I fall apart, because I’m simply fragile? Or because I get up each time, dry my nose and re-assume fighting position? Am I a woman because I create, the papillae on my tongue melting into words that seem starved once they reach my fingertips? Because I endure the laughs and threats and gazes, pats on my shoulder and “It’ll be fine, sweetheart”s? Because I persist?

Or is woman a lifelong process starting with monthly blood cascades, erupting into hot steaming lava and eventually stiffening into merciless, cold rock?

I know this. There isn’t one second in which I find myself the same person as the last. I’m pushing forward.

I’m beyond woman.
I’m change.

 

Henna Sjöblom is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She maintains a small creative reserve at MurderTrampBirthday.

Now someone hates me- Henna Sjöblom

eternally_missed__by_hell_okitty

You ever run into someone on town and instantly get a feeling that they hate you? It happened again.
I’m not sure, of course, we locked eyes only for a brief moment; I, standing at the checkout, balancing a bag of Cheetos on my arm and my wallet nailed between my chin and shoulder, desperately trying to insert my Visa card in the reader while answering the phone,
and you, a few inches away, your eyes glistening with disgust,
drifting over my frayed jeans clasping delightfully over my ass, my Dimmu Borgir t-shirt and the black eyeliner smeared out a tad around my left eye.
The mere sight of me has awoken a rage within you,
a fatal combination of sexual frustration and a mere lust for power
You reach forward, making sure to let your arm stroke along my back although there’s plenty of space around us, pressing just a little at the tailbone,
a reminder

that you own me.

Walking home from a party that night, sobbing silently into my phone speaker.
Did something happen, you ask.
No, I say. I’m just menstruating. How else to explain this feeling of insufficiency? Should have drunk less. Should have acted more intellectual. Wow. Should certainly not have laughed at that dick joke. They must all think me so shallow.

Now what did I do? I run it trough in my head. Did I degrade the entire female population again?

Sometimes the road home just isn’t long enough.

I’m trying to make the best of it,
but the truth is,
I hate being in this body
that bleeds, bulges, produces hormones at an excessive rate
I hate not being strong enough to push you away when you grab me
I hate that you make me hate myself

I buy clothes I feel sexy in, then decide not to wear them
The pile of shame is growing in my closet
I spend nights silently apologizing in my mind
Sorry for being weak
Sorry for being disgusting (And, simultaneously, so outrageously irresistible that men can’t help but follow me in the street.)

I had a dream about killing you.
About kicking you down from your stupid bike,
pushing you to the ground,
and drive my plateu heels into your temples again and again,
until you were nothing but a wet, manly stain on the pavement

I laugh in my solitude
at the thought of tearing you apart
everything seems funny until
you point to the cleft between my legs and say it’s improper
I say I have needs
of being seen, being appreciated,
maybe improperly penetrated,
I say,
I’m not a virgin
I like sex
I like to feel attractive
even in my solitude

But nothing’s private, nothing’s solely mine
my reproductive organs, my sexuality, not even my personality
it’s all just mud for the dogs to wallow in
Just what did I do to become so wretched?
Let me show you! I scream into the hands trying to hush me
I can be tough!
I can be secretive and hard-to-get and intellectual if that’s what you want! Just give me a bloody chance!

This is when
you say that I fail to control my emotions
antagonizing my own efforts to bring legitimacy to myself
I’d like to say you don’t know what you’re talking about
So what if I’m a bit in love with you?
So what if I dream of you sometimes
And so what if I touched myself to the thought of you –
Well, not you. Never you.
Just you, thinking that I’m
Valid! I’m still valid! I’m not stupid.
I know when to play silly,
when to giggle,
when to lift my skirt and exclaim: “Ooh! How unfortunate!”
When to moan and pretend I’m having an orgasm,
just so that you won’t feel bad about yourself.
I’ve been raised to satisfy, whether it be by
smiling, agreeing, or just shutting up.
Does the thought of me offering you all of this make me
less worthy in your eyes?
In that case,
maybe I’ll just hate
you too.


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.