Good girls wish to matter – Candice Louisa Daquin

Good girls

Don’t masturbate

They don’t politely rub themselves for hours

In the steam of locked bathrooms

Where no one can hear their need

Good girls

Sit cross-legged, thighs touching, wondering why

They feel bereft

Reminded that sex and its pleasures

Still considered a sin of sorts

When in doubt show comportment

Good girls don’t

Cut themselves and hide the blood

They don’t scream behind crimson closed doors

Chop off their hair

They don’t lose their shit in public and get asked

Are you okay? / Or worse … / Walked past

Good girls hold themselves together with stick pins

and butterfly wings, egg shells and lost names

tar and soot, the remainder of hope chest

stuffing leaking out like snow in 80 degrees

Even as their feathered heart and roiling ocean is fit to burst

Good girls starve the fat bits and cook them slow

God knows know how to please others

Even as they climb further down the hole

And I would say

If you are in need of feasting

Feast on me

There’s white meat and brown

Though dried up and dessicated, none the less

They invite the stranger to sup at table

Though my teeth are small and I whistle in my sleep

Good girls wish to matter to someone

And if they do not

They climb inside a foreign language

Speaking upside down in glue

Let me lap up

This spoilt milk and curdled cream

Good girls may not have been

Tenderized as well as beaten veal

Their warrior hearts may defy the need

To bow and scrape and lose identity

In rush of elbows, knees and worldly zeal

They may

Save their patchwork daughters

They may turn and talk to you on a bus

As it rushes through the traffic like a book of poetry

They may touch your arm and ask

Do you feel as I?

Would you wish to cry?

And hold it in a blue dropper

Waiting for a quiet moment to pour out

Disguise the truth of thinly held together madness?

Good girls may be caught

In-flagranti and rolled over iron bed frame

In contorted pose of acrobats anquish

Many will say afterward

What happened to her? She seemed so well behaved

Before she became a whore.slut.fool.puta.cunt

Good girls may shout

From their confines in grimy mental ward

Behind glass only appear to mouth

Words of female repression and horror

For as a man will take his wont

A women doing the same, is twice judged

By her sisters and herself

Learned behavior owned by masters

Who seek to extricate her voice

The touch of a wave as it crests

Furiously over those barriers we believe

Protect us from harm

She is despite this, a creature of the sea

When they eventually tire of her

She finds salty pathway and is reabsorbed

Good girls are black pearls

They are made by rolling in worldly grit

Until they glow dark beneath the storm

I Knew My Mistakes – Kristiana Reed

I knew my mistakes

I knew my mistakes when they were emblazoned

across my chest, a red poker hot dress

you bought for me when I forgot your tea

or to arrange the flowers perfectly.

 

I knew my mistakes when both hello

and goodbye were pursed lips,

a cold shoulder in the sheets,

a clarion call of silence.

 

I knew my mistakes when you shared them

with our friends, your mother and mine,

a verbatim list of why you didn’t have the time

to raise me an angel following in your wake.

 

I knew my mistakes when pity

felt more like love than kissing you

goodnight, lying in wait for you to finish

me – breakfast, lunch and dinner.

 

I knew my mistakes when I said I was leaving

and opened the door for you,

letting the useless escape from my bones

to join you with your suitcase down the road.


(Photo: Vivian Maier)

Inspired by the incredible Kindra M. Austin’s ‘I Knew My Worth‘ and Aurora Phoenix’s ‘I Knew My Place‘.

Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar & Sudden Denouement, and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.

Shieldmaiden…

 

shildmaiden

Sigrun by RinRin Daishi

Her eyes are painted
with porcelain bravery
bravado and battlefield-hardened
she wields her weapons
sarcastic razor-edged wit
impenetrable oaken confidence
guarding her breast
all the ambition forged
within iron and steel
dark amber flame, her hair
across her shoulders
a regal mane
unstirred by the winds of war
like so many before her
behind this buttressed bulwark
lies a warrior heart
broken and battle-weary
enough of scars and sacrifice
enough of wounds and wanting
rain-soaked and shell-shocked
she wanders
seeking the broken path home