The feminine urge

The feminine urge to be pretty but also not seen as pretty, only hard. Only brutal. Never easy enough to love to be tricked into standing still at the wrong place. At the wrong time.

The feminine urge to be safe on a street wearing pink, bare feet and a silk dress in the wind. The feminine urge to look over my shoulder every time I hear a twig snap.

The feminine urge to move with the moon and not have to excuse that everything will forever be a vicious cycle. That we are our own seasons and every single morning I will wake up not knowing what my eyes really look like. Are they green or am I jealous of the way none of the men I know negotiate their existence every time they want to talk about pleasure. Or pain. The feminine urge to hold a child's hand. To be a child again. To be protected without question and never once told that your skirt is too short to play soccer on a summers afternoon. How could I be viewed as anything other than sacred?.

The feminine urge to hold space for every animal, to bleed red blood on wet soil on the nights that the rain brings us all to our knees.

The feminine urge to stay poised for everything other than a better view of the birds that fly on by without ever looking back. For everything other than finally knowing what it tastes like to own yourself. And to speak without your voice breaking.