It is a new morning.
You know you will have to do this over and over and over.
Everytime, you get a little bit stronger. Not because it gets easy, but because you know the
battleground so well.
My dad said, " You are my brave boy, you don't need a mask to help you shine."
But little did they know, the mask was now my identity,
Some people knew me with the mask and they loved me.
So here’s the tale!
Here’s to the violet when I was bullied for not being ladylike and pushed against the last
bench of the classroom.
The blood cloth as if showed the first colour of the flag on my skin.
One of the things I love most about theatre
Is the ephemeral disintegration of orthodox socio-cultural identities,
Which typically comes along with losing your self for another,
Gendered expectations of Walk like a man, talk like a man, sit like a man,
Spread your legs, assert your dominance;
No, not you! You’re a woman. You, huddle up.
Occupy less space. Be less loud.
was hard. I’m still trying.
I chased the normal by complying.
Amongst feminist poetry, her work, such as The List of Shit That Made Me A Feminist series, is bold and unapologetic, showcasing the common experiences of women all over the world. It gives rise to feelings of solidarity, along with the resolve to create change and emerge from the ruins, stronger than ever.
So would you not
join me in the investigation
for the world to decipher
why (spoiler alert)
you killed “what a poor boy”.
predictably building up to a steamy lovemaking scene,
marked by the male gaze
and then there's the inseparability
I’m not at all unsure, I look at her and I know.
She’s the kind of girl
I want to wrap myself around,
Press my lips against, and slam into the door.
I can't kiss my love on the street, because she might notice the bruises on my heart from beating too loud,
might notice I tremble too much,
night notice I'm bringing an earthquake on the pavement.
Your stare accuses me of a crime
I know not, gone is your faith;
But this jewel has always been mine
And the truth can never be changed.
The old year
may die – a dream
with the blistering sun
the blue-sea left me deep
Too nervous to make a conversation,
I continued on my way to class,
Asking my friends about you,
When I got to know you were new.
If you could see the world through my eyes
But then, you can't
And I don't expect you to.
I've always seen colors
In places I wasn't supposed to.
My closet is a library, with nested closets filled with epics and love stories of that my heart wishes it would recreate, in this heteronormative world.
My closet frees me, my closet restricts me.
All I did
Was press me
Closer to himself
And hold on
To his thick long hair
Not ready deep down
I look down at my rainbow socks, I used to cover them with black school stockings. I stare at them like I stare at my abyss and get caught up amidst flashbacks.
For you made my world a little happier,
Made my heart a little full
Made my life a little brighter,
Love used to be a mouthful.
This is a tale about 2 blue-eyed boys in Nazi Germany,
The year was 1938 – a good year for Germany, historically speaking, of course,
United with Austria, a long-lost brother,
Germany continued to bend and stretch and thwart the clauses of the Treaty that had stolen its pride and confined it to the cold, ruthless white hands of the West.