Tag: Women

Beatrix Kiddo

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A Monday Reflection

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you could never Kill Bill me to death.
Uma Thurman Martial Artsing her way
through vixens and villains is a pastime
of which I approve.

who else could murder the father of her child
while giving her daughter a glimpse
of taking down the patriarchy with a katana sword
a dead-to-the-world craftsman steeled for her?

two installments power-packed with rage, love, grief, and gore
while the wounds of a betrayed woman
fester is top-tier viewing for pleasure.

whenever I want to escape my pain,
I Beatrix Kiddo it away.

Originally published on Substack Notes.

The Story of Tears

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A Lamentation of things past

Grief is laying claim to its resting place—twisting and
turning me out of my skin.

I do not know the woman I see in the mirror.
She can no longer survive everything.

She begs me to notice her, too—to know that
her heart can’t take another breaking.

I’m listening… I hear her.
I’m listening… I feel her.

Here we go again.

Originally published via Substack Notes. Scattered Words: Hardcover $26.00 USD|Scattered Words: eBook $11.00 USD|Scattered Words: Amazon

taxes and gentlemen who lurk in the hearts of ruined women

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a free verse poem (NaPoWriMo #18)

Uncle Sam by Andy Warhol, ©1981. National Gallery of Art (Free-to-Use)

I stare at the voucher that tells me what I owe the State.
I was supposed to pay it by the 15th, but I’m ignoring it.
it’ll be there. it’s low enough for me not to be concerned
about additional feels that will soon incur, so why
the hell not?

I’m tired of taxes and the men with split
tongues telling me how helpful they
are for the community, yet my community
is a village struggling to keep food on
its table, while they line their pockets with
hard-earned money from workers who are
building early graves.

anything to keep them above water
while watching the rest of us drown…
how cunning—none of what we experience
trickles down to them, maybe it
should.

a friend of mine—who was once more
than a friend, but we hadn’t/haven’t
labeled it anything because what would
we name it?
he loves that I’m still around.
I know he always will be.

there’s comfort in our bullshit
and avoidance of our pain.

we’re out here holding each other
back because of ruin—I know more
about him than he’ll ever let on.
he knows more about me than anyone
else should… the moment we realize
nothing is here *waves hand in the air
absent-mindedly*, we’ll walk away.

I watch clips of men talking to other men—reeling
them in with flowery words and
grooming them on how to degrade women.
it is a flawless effort on their part—like the work
spills out without any labor.
they cackle and slap their hands to
their knees—putting on a show for people
hidden in CPUs and side-by-side monitors.

I tell the friend who is more than a friend,
but can’t be anything else, “I know this. If there is anything
I DO KNOW, I know how you feel about
and are about me,” but only after
he says, “My love and kindness for you are real.”
the damaged parts of me know he means
well, but guard is still up.

the yearning parts of me want to
let go, but I can smell vulnerability a mile
away, and his isn’t as tall as I’d like
it to be.

So I remain careful—relentless in my
aim to spare myself the torture of
dishing out money before I’m ready and
dishing out the body before it’s healed.
and somehow taxes and gentlemen who
lurk in the hearts of ruined women
merge into one.

I rebuild the wall.

 Scattered Words: Hardcover $26.00 USD|Scattered Words: eBook $11.00 USD|Scattered Words: Amazon