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the art of growing

i felt beautiful until the age of twelve
when my body began to ripen like new fruit
and suddenly
the men looked at my newborn hips with salivating lips
the boys didn’t want to play tag at recess
they wanted to touch all the new
and unfamiliar parts of me
the parts i didn’t know how to wear
didn’t know how to carry
and tried to bury in my rib cage.

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WAKE UP WOMEN

They have come for us
We who are female
We who bleed
They are trying to pull us backwards
To a time when their hatred of us was open
Where they controlled all of what we said and did
Their patriarchy perpetuates itself through their churches

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The Well of Grief

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,

turning down through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe,

will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,

nor find in the darkness glimmering,
the small round coins,
thrown by those who have wished for something else.

David Whyte

The Well Within

My very essence was not affirmed.
So I took it all and kept it inside.
Mom was emotionally unavailable
and perhaps she kept me small for different reasons.
I was not affirmed.
But then also,
maybe my essence was uncomfortable for her.
Maybe she didn’t want me to stray too far outside the boundaries/the lines.

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The Invisible Corset

The divorce rate between women and our bodies is sky-high.

We’re told our worth is our beauty, our glory is our youth, and we’re told this so often we swallow it as truth.

Beauty culture clamors, ”Change yourself, rearrange yourself, shrink, shape, and buy!” We slather our skin with promises, but our bodies never seem to comply.

”I’m choosing this,” we say, ”because I prefer to look this way.” But what about that small inner voice that says, ”I sort of like it…but partly I don’t feel like I have a choice.”

The industry of patriarchy has told us that beauty is pain, and we need beauty to win this survival game. We concede and so internalize our oppression, holding our bonds in place with our own perceptions.

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Our Real Work

It may be that when we no longer know what to do

we have come to our real work,

and that we no longer know which way to go

we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

Wendell Berry

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