Women

Originally published in Feminine Collective: Raw & Unfiltered: Vol 1. Anthology

I sometimes wonder how it must feel
to be stupid, simple, non-questioning sheep.
I guess it would feel fine. Like Mayberry felt fine.
What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right?

My mom is simple. Her thoughts don’t delve into the depths above her
skull, weave through layer upon layer, pry inside, dig down, traverse the
mazes of her mind, look for answers deep within barricaded caves. Her
thoughts don’t go there. They don’t. Her thoughts skate smoothly along
the glassy surface, never carving lines, never knocking, never
gouging her slick, icy cold skull. Why not? Why?

I’ve been told by some that I read too much.
I’ve been told by some that I think too much.
I’ve been told by some that I question too much.
That I’m too curious, too open, too influenced, that I’m simple.
Fancy that, I’m fucking simple.

Simple because I enjoy a dumb movie now and again.
Simple because, in all my voracious thinking, I can freeze my brain
and just enjoy something for what it is, nothing more.
Simple because I can lower my expectations and relate to anything.

“I knew that going in,” I said.
“I already adjusted for that,” I said.
“For what it was, I think it was good,” I said.
Mouths agape, the shock, the horror, the audacity, the judgment.
“Really? You liked that?” She asked.
“Yeah. Really. I did,” I said.
I mean, for what it was supposed to be, I liked it.
Soft Porn. What can you expect, after all?
What can you expect?

“What were YOU expecting?” I ask the friend.
It seems she is more delusional than I.
Soft porn, after all, is meant to be taken in jest.
Isn’t it?
Adjust.
Adapt. Compensate.

Stop.

Water   cat’s clean   heart courses   we watch   tongue   strap fluff   ball
rolling, licking fur   more fur   clean it   toes   Red not for long lipstick bells jingling chalk   red on table   wicker hurt, confused simple eyes   green saucers of pain   over   over   wait   over

Wait with baited breath. Pretentious Polly
better than the rest. Watching, probing, wanting,
criticizing, shielding something. But what?
We all shield something.
Walls grow, weeds entangle, lies intertwine. More shields.
When is it enough?

When will women be enough for themselves?
Enough to press forward? Enough to accept?
Enough to celebrate? Enough to rest, before it’s over.
Before the mind is lost. Before an eternity of resentment, blame,
disgust, contempt, scorn, hatred, rage.
Delusions of grandeur? Holier than thou.

Wherefore art thou my lord? For he so fucked up he gave his only begotten son. What a load of crap. I’d never give my son. Never.
Not to save the souls of sinners. Not for them.
Those selfish sons of bitches.
Bitches. That’s right. The name is there for a reason.
No rhyme or reason—not so—always a reason.

Art has a reason, a contribution, a commitment to do
better. Achieve more. Compare. Contrast. Discuss. Debate.
Art. Acceptance. Equal.
Art.
We are equal.
We are free. In our minds. We are.
We are accountable too. We are.
No matter what.
No matter what.
No matter what.
No matter what.
Accountable.
Culpable. Equal.

Ready to flee. That’s me. Ready to flee, a world away.
From life. Ready to flee. Black hole.
Vapid. Vociferous. Victorious.
Enough.

Deserving
or not
it’s there.
Enough.
Ready. Willing. Waiting.
Enough.
There for the taking. NOW
Enough.

When will we be enough?

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Thoughts

thoughts