guest writer, poetry

Piercings

by Chris Hawkins. This poem appears in Boshemia Magazine: BODIES. Photo by Connor Irwin.

 

Your earrings were still on my desk,

one week and half after you plucked

each from either lobe and left them

to glimmer in the energy— Continue reading

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guest writer, mental health, opinion

Men Must Stop Using Male Suicide as a Trump Card

Regular contributor Liam Atterbury discusses the frequent mis-placing of important discussions around male suicide and mental health. You can see more of Liam’s work in Issues 02 and 04 of Boshemia Magazine, available from our online store.

Six months on from the death of Anthony Bourdain and the topic of male suicide still lingers on the tip of our collective tongue. Horizon has since produced an incredibly articulate and sensitive documentary on the subject of male suicide, and institutions such as Samaritans and Verywell continue to raise much-needed awareness through prolific research and writing. As I lay in my bed, trawling through my Facebook or Twitter feed, I can see that the issue of male suicide is still very much at the forefront of conversation, yet I cannot remember the last time I saw an article on male suicide that did not refer to it as a gender-based issue. This is, of course, because male suicide is a gender-based issue, and has a rightful place in discussions of such. However, the topic seems to be surfacing in the strangest of places, and as a weapon. Continue reading

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art, guest writer, Personal Essay, photography

Nudity Redefined // Feminism and the Male Gaze in the Nude Portrait

by Selina Macias (@afrogyps). Photography by Victoria Dewey (@tori_ventures). 

Patriarchal ideology has long defined how we perceive feminine nudity, modesty, and sensuality. Through this male gaze, the nude self-image of women becomes distorted and controlled, and traditional masculine interpretations of modesty become a means of restraining the female body. American poet and feminist Adrienne Rich declared that feminism ultimately implies the awareness of this distortion of male-created ideologies and how women think and act out of that recognition; in Rich’s view, feminism is an attempt to reassert female perspective to counter male-dominated ideologies. With this philosophy, I decided to redefine nudity for myself with a feminist approach, through portraits.

When I approached photographer and friend, Victoria, to do a nude photoshoot with me, I wanted to use this opportunity of expression to experiment with how I have come to understand nudity for myself,  outside of the negative connotation society has latched onto it. Nudity is not the obscene, cry for attention that many perceive it to be but rather an act of bravery in being able to showcase oneself proudly, candidly, and vulnerably before those who do not wish to explore its various dimensions.

It is common cultural practice that women are held to a higher moral caliber than men; thus when women threaten the virtuous guidelines in which they are inexplicably incarceratedlike adherence to monogamy, modesty, and submissionthey are often chastised. Notice that these judgments all derive from the objective discomfort with female sexuality. It is not fair to take the primary, divine aspect that inevitably emulates from women, and use it as a form of repression to assert control.

“I think if you criticize someone’s right to express themselves however feels comfortablebe it modesty or vulnerable expressionthen you are most likely projecting some sort of personal insecurity or a mindset that is not about acceptance and inclusivity,” Victoria explains. Nudity celebrates the physical and emotional bearance of a person. It indicates where they are and how they look and feel in that moment. In these pictures, I view my body as a serene, humble haven over my soul radiating in raw, imperfect glory.  

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photographs by Victoria Dewey

If we really want to talk about functioning outside patriarchal ideologies, I daresay that a sense of modesty emits from nudity. “The human form is incredibly versatile, and for as much as conservative society tends to romanticize the notion of modesty, especially for women, I generally find nudity to be the purest representation of emotional vulnerability there is and I’m highly sceptical of anyone who views nudity as strictly taboo/inappropriate,” Victoria asserts. For millennia, religious and political institutions have utilized the term in a manner that has almost exclusively targets women. The idea implies showing less skin to prevent arousal of bystanders (men). In the twenty-first century though, it is time to alleviate this word from this stifling interpretation.

Modesty is not merely a state of dress or undress, but about yielding oneself to others. Submitting oneself to the refinement of their craft to inform to the best of their ability is a kind of modesty. Presenting oneself uncovered, undefined, and unapologetically is also modesty. These facets represent interpretations of modesty and nudity. Both concepts are intertwined with the intention to offer the self without boundaries, essentially, fostering connection from human to another.

I fully acknowledge that there is certainly a way to do everything with social grace. I am not condoning girls to take off their clothes, pucker their lips, poke out their chest and claim that to be art, nor do I berate those who choose to portray themselves that way. I am saying that however a woman decides to express herself, sensuality will inevitably radiate. It is an irrepressible, alluring power that diffuses from our spirits and we should not be reprimanded for its eminence in our expression.

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guest writer, How to Raise a Feminist, interview, LGBT+, long read, politics, Q & A, raising a feminist, voices of resistance

On Radical Motherhood and Gigs in Academia with Jennifer Grubbs

Interview by Daniela Jungova

Dr Jennifer Grubbs is a Visiting Assistant Professor and the Assistant Director of the Women’s Studies Program at East Tennessee State University. As a mother of three kids under the age of six, she maneuvers the personal and the professional both inside and outside of the classroom on the daily. And her personal and professional are most definitely also political—Jenny is a queer, vegan anarchafeminist who teaches courses on critical race, gender studies and anthropology. Here, she talked to me about child-rearing while precariously employed, the importance of having honest and empowering conversations with kids, and the possibility of them rejecting everything she and her partner believe in.  

Jenny, you were a 27-year-old radical scholar when you became pregnant with your first child. How did your personal politics shape what kind of mother you wanted to become?

A lot of my politics grew adversarially to my parents and what I had understood about the dominant narratives in the world. So I wanted to make my child keenly aware of their privilege in the world, their privilege in this country (the United States), their privilege as a child of two highly educated cisgender queer folk that are read not as queer, and also just aware of environmental injustice and species degradation. I knew that approaching parenting from an already adversarial politic (against hegemonic forces), worst case scenario, I would have a kid that totally rebelled against that.

So I went into it with a lot of lofty thoughts and goals of letting the child have the space to create their own identity, to create their own understanding of the world. My partner and I were very intentional about putting these lofty theories and politics into practice from pregnancy to birth, and then from birth to now (she’s six years old).

Did elements of your personal politics in any way clash with your friends’, coworkers’ and relatives’ assumptions, beliefs, or expectations?

Yeah, absolutely. One thing I found out was that with my first child, which was gendered female, people were far more flexible with raising her with this vegan, anti-speciesist, fluidity-of-gender politic, than they were when I gave birth to my third, which was gendered male. There were certainly expectations from a medical perspective (What you will feed them?) to an educational standpoint (What will you teach them?) to a performative (How will you dress them?). So what we’ve experienced from having two daughters to having a son has changed quite a bit.

Why did people have a bigger problem with you raising your son vegan as opposed to your daughters?

I think a part of it is because the consumption of animals is so tied to masculinity. Understanding masculinity is understanding the hierarchy of human over animal. That’s just very embedded. So to have a male child that doesn’t see themselves within that hierarchy, or that is being raised to understand their own privilege and power not tied to power-over-animal, I think that there was this anxiety that they wouldn’t understand their true masculinity. That they wouldn’t have the potential to be completely “masculine”. I think with [our firstborn] Emory, there was more flexibility there and less anxiety around ideals of femininity in this regard. But if you don’t teach little boys to accept violence against animals and to be OK with it, somehow, they will be not strong enough. We’ve experienced it in far more of a candid way with him than we did with our daughters.

And what about other aspects of your politics?

Another point of contention within our local communities, aside from veganism, has been how we dress our children and the clothes we make available to them. We believe that gender is a social construction. We believe that gender is a choice, it’s a performance that you do day in and day out. And it’s the same for children. So if one of our children decides to wear something gendered feminine and it doesn’t match with how society has ascribed their gender, our parenting becomes up for debate.

What I have generally seen is that whenever you do something that’s counter-hegemonic, like teaching a white child about white privilege, we are met with confrontational questions like, “Why are you pushing your politic on them?” Or, our son likes to wear dresses, and he wears them to a lot of social functions. And it’s always like, “Why do you make him wear that? You’re not giving him a choice.”

People can be all in your face when they feel like you’re doing something wrong, but at the end of the day, we live in an individualistic culture, and motherhood can feel isolating and very much like one’s own overwhelming responsibility. How did you navigate this “social order” in light of your desire for a more communal experience?

When it comes to our different communities, not everyone shares my articulation of intersectional politics, and the same goes for my partner. That is the challenge of intersectional politics and coalitional politics—we can be in an anarchist circle and anti-speciesism might not be a part of the politic there. Or we can be in an anarchist, anti-speciesist circle, and feminism may not be a part of the conversation. We can be amongst anti-speciesist activists and find the conversation to be wholly racist and single-issue.

One major roadblock that keeps both of us from engaging in the same community at the same time is the logistics. With children and a companion animal, we find ourselves dividing the domestic labor. For all of us to be together at an event ends up being a challenge. Even when we are physically present, collectively, one of us ends up on “child-duty” solo. I personally haven’t found it to be super easy to attend events that require my mental and emotional energy focus, even when childcare is provided. It can feel alienating, both from the larger community and even from your partner. You miss the simplicity of walking out the door and attending a demo together, or the ease of scheduling a workshop together and doing the work together. Now, it’s more of a team mentality. As long as our team is represented, I feel okay.

But I definitely think that there are folks out there and social media is a nice way to remind yourself of that. But in terms of material community, it’s a challenge here.

Can you tell me how long your maternity leave was with each of your kids? Did you feel like it was sufficient?

I didn’t have maternity leave with any of them in academia.

With Emory, I was teaching at American University [in Washington, DC] and I taught class two weeks after she was born. With Simon, my second child, I didn’t have any maternity leave either. I was teaching two courses, and again, I was back in the classroom two weeks later. Same with [Tevye], our youngest. So no, it wasn’t long enough. It’s non-existent. Unless you’re in a tenure-track position that has structural awareness of other situations in your life, you have to make it work. But I have been precariously employed in academia over the last six years, so I have not had the great benefits of parental leave. If I were to have taken leave, it would’ve been unpaid and it would’ve negatively impacted my course evaluations. Actually, when I returned to class after giving birth, I got these comments from students saying, “Oh wow, you’re back, we thought you weren’t going to come!” or “I thought we were going to have to have class in hospital!” Some appeared in writing in the course evaluations. So I found that that personal boundary is really pressed in that time period.

Could you identify a couple of things that you could have really used at that stage of motherhood? Things that would have made it more enjoyable and logistically easier, aside from more time off, obviously?

I think that structurally it would’ve been great if the university had some kind of a system of having a teaching assistant during that period or some form of childcare on campus. Because when I returned to campus, it was all on me to pay for childcare. I can remember teaching a two-hour lecture, rushing out into the hallway where my partner was bouncing the baby, sneaking into a classroom to breastfeed, and rushing back to class hoping that I had gone un-seen. With us both working full-time, this is now a scenario of the past. Post-partum teaching with an infant is an expensive, exhausting endeavor. Aside from additional compensation or stipend to cover childcare, there should be more compassion for the physical and emotional impact.  

But I think that the way the American society views childrearing is very individualistic—it’s just “my problem”. It’s not even my partner’s problem. It’s not a matter of them having to navigate these institutional barriers. It’s all on me. This is not to say that my partner and I haven’t worked collectively to care for our children, but I am the lactating parent. I am the one visibly pregnant and interrogated by colleagues and students about the viability of my professionalism in the face of domesticity. Male academics are applauded when they are caught juggling these worlds. Female academics are criticized and devalued.

Speaking of breastfeeding, you penned a chapter in Defiant Daughters called The Sexual Politics of Breastfeeding. In that essay, you touched on the neoliberal corporatization of academia. What does that look like in everyday life and how does it contribute to the issues facing new parents?

Part of what I was getting at in that piece was talking about the undoing of the academic structure. What happened is they’ve taken a tenure-track position and chopped it up to either three visiting professor positions or ten adjunct positions. It’s a shift to a gig-based economy within academia—where it’s not about you as an individual being a fair member of the department team doing advising, working on curriculum, holding office hours and teaching, while working on your research throughout.

The newer, neoliberal, corporatized system instead has individual labor performers. You’re brought in, you teach one class or five classes, and you’re paid per class credit hour. So you don’t have access to any of the benefits that the university offers, like healthcare, retirement benefits, paid time off, or a sabbatical. Some schools will offer tiny stipends but in most cases, you’re not eligible to apply for any research funds. Visiting positions provide the security of a salary and benefits, but they circumvent the tenure process entirely.

As you’re juggling all these structural issues and maneuvering parenting, not having access to any of these benefits, when you’re already financially challenged, just further perpetuates the disparity between the haves and the have-nots in academia. It becomes really hard to break out of this system and get into a tenure-track position because you don’t have the research and you don’t have the grants that you’ve secured—because you’ve been too busy teaching eight classes that still add up to less than $30,000 a year. And a tenure track professor may have negotiated to teach four classes a year, so the workload is disproportionate. And it’s not only difficult to reach these tenure track positions, there’s also less and less of them.

So basically you do more work, you’re paid less, you have less access to structural support, and you have less long-term investment in your career. All of those things, when compounded with rearing a child, are a perpetuation of a system of poverty.

All in all, what do you think is the most difficult and the most rewarding aspect of radical parenthood?

The most challenging thing is that it can be exhausting and isolating. Watching our kids navigate their own exclusion is both a reminder of the work to be done, and solidifies our political commitment to activism. Although I am really proud of their perseverance and mature analyses, I cannot help but feel sad that they have to experience it. Watching them learn for themselves how bad the world is, and not knowing what will change in their lifetime, is heartbreaking.

But the most rewarding part is knowing that we’re trying to create people that will fuck up the bad shit in the world. We’re really trying to disrupt and destabilize hegemony—and we’re doing that three little people at a time!

 

Dr. Jennifer Grubbs is a Visiting Assistant Professor and the Assistant Director of the Women’s Studies Program at East Tennessee State University. Her research bridges feminist anthropology, environmental communication, and queer studies, both in method and application. Specifically, Jennifer has examined the ways in which activists co-create identities of resistance within neoliberal capitalism to dismantle ecological and species hierarchies through confrontational forms of protest. Through an intersectional feminist lens, Jennifer’s work attempts to deconstruct the interconnected hierarchies that are used to naturalize and perpetuate systems of violence. You can find Jenny’s blog here.

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guest writer, LGBT+, Personal Essay

Ode to an Ever-Changing Wardrobe

by Robbie Masters. Robbie is a writer and fine artist based in Bristol, UK. Their work addresses questions of transgender identities, mental health and sexual politics through a queer feminist lens, drawing upon their personal experience as a queer, femme survivor. 

There’s a grumbling in the basement; in my stomach; in the depths of my mind. There’s a protective cocoon of quilt and down. The faint smell of warm computer dust mixes with the vinegar from a newly opened packet of Chipsticks. Carpet burn has ruined yet another pair of school trousers and scuffed black shoes have no place in this world. Grass stains tell tales; proving that I’ve seen the ground up close. Trip, graze and tumbledoes it hurt? 

The TV picture wiggles at the other end of the room as signal fades in and out. There are crumbs everywhere. A printer noisily chokes out a piece of ink-saturated paper with Barbie’s new clothes on, ready to be folded and glued down with Pritt stick. As I carefully shape the rigid orange dress around her tiny naked waist, lumpy breasts and slippery smooth legs, I am blissfully unaware that I will one day go to the same trouble to put my own outfits together. 

The dressing-up box is a distant memory. Years of rooting through hand-me-downs mean that I know what I’m looking for. I don’t always find it, but I’m drawn to a bargain. There, on the sale rail, is a white wide-neck top. It speaks of beaches and cleavage. It’s in the men’s section, but it’s different somehow. For the first time I feel a flutter of risky autonomy. I’ll buy it. I won’t wear it too often—I think it may be a tad girly. I’ll buy it. 

I’m flustered after being told I’m in the wrong changing room. Shoulders restrict me from getting my arms into seemingly endless sleeves. My calves make even the stretchiest of denim fall faint. A reluctant waistband digs where it shouldn’t, while the inside-leg seam grimaces and relinquishes its grip on the now-fraying undercarriage stitches. My bum won’t fit into these jeans.  

A charity shop scramble helps me figure it out, I spot a couple of things I adore. The gentle nudge from well-chosen friends gives me confidence to explore. A floral shirt meets a vintage bow tie, suit trousers worn high with braces or a belt. A cheap pair of high-street dungarees call my name. My darling fave comes with me for moral support and before I know it I’m buying them, wearing them and feeling adorable. There’s no turning backI’m cute now; I’m loveable.

Buy a few sizes up, learn to love leggings and discover the freeing swish and sway of a culotte, skirt or flowing maxi. Engage only with the top button of a silken blouse or a pattern akin to the most beautiful of flower gardens. Forget the clothes that have been designed for your body type those fuckers don’t know you. A new length of hair and carefully painted face combine with my newfound drapery to form what I think you might call confidence. The colours give it personality, with blushing flowers and matching rosy lips breathing life into the whole ensemble. Is this what it’s like to feel pretty? A deep sigh says that I can do this. The world tells me I can’t.

The box of bow ties still sits among my hoarded possessions, a reminder of my journey to queerness. Drawings of me from my first year of university depict a character I likeone my friends are fond ofbut not one I identify with. Shirts still hang in the wardrobe, caressing a Moss Bros suit bag that holds the handsome two-piece that once saw the success of graduation, a summer wedding and a string of job interviews with the happiest of outcomes. Thanks Mum. 

I split myself for a while. I lived in separate boy mode and girl mode, blending the two to an extent, but always travelling with one tucked away in the depths of a wheeled suitcase or screwed up in a rucksack. 

Folio2

Robbie Masters

‘If you’re coming round, are you alright to change first? My housemates are in’.  I may as well have cut myself in half. I was hiding again. 

I pushed boundaries and burnt my comfort zone to the ground. I took clothes to my beloved charity shops. I shopped and shopped again. Many a selfie I took. I cried when I glimpsed the mirror and my face wouldn’t complete the look. I cut myself shaving. They told me to be careful but I took care not to care. I tried to be pretty and society mocked me for it, but my friends and family kept me strong. My partner loved me all along. 

I’m wearing pyjamas to the shops again. The worst happened, but my clothes no longer cared. Clothed or naked, rock bottom felt the same. I’d still feel the pain of a body betrayed. 

With help I found new ways to love myself. My body learned to twitch with tension, commanding respect and rejecting repression. I found sanctity in a laser and honesty in my nightmares. My world was upside down, but my skin looked great and my hair stayed glossy. I fought for survival and sought to forgive myself. My love lent me a jumper to keep me warm. My mum sent me a sunshine-yellow scarf to brighten my spring. With the promise of a shopping trip I can weather the storm, I think. 

My facial hair wriggled and fell out at my command. I put on weight and I liked it. I ate a lot and I loved it. My clothes still fit, because I bought them too big. My boobs are larger than ever. I’m pregnant with emotion and I’m full of shit. My clothes are different, but I’m coping just the same. I’m wrapped in a duvet, still fighting off the shame.

‘Ode to An Ever-Changing Wardrobe’ originally appeared in the BODIES issue, available here.
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guest writer, mental health, Personal Essay

A Self-Care Approach to Mental Health Isolation

by Kelly Ronaldson. Photo by Naomi August.

This time last year, I was halfway through my first year of university, living in the heart of my favourite city, and on my way to securing my dream career. Things weren’t perfect, but I had an incredible group of friends, a revitalised love for writing and a newfound hope for my personal future. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always work out exactly the way you want it to. Within a few months, my mental health began to deteriorate as a severe wave of depression took over and eventually led me back to where I started. Three weeks ago, I packed up everything I owned, drove 250 miles and moved back into my mother’s house.

What I hadn’t considered was how living alone for the past year had clouded my memories of living in an environment where discussions of mental health issues were extremely limited. The truth is, not everyone has the ability to reach out to friends, family or partners and explain what they’re going through. With such a negative stigma surrounding mental health, those who care about us are likely to deny, trivialize or dismiss our feelings and our symptoms, simply because they’re struggling to understand, and trying to explain ourselves over and over can be exhausting.

Living in an environment like this can be toxic, and speaking from personal experience, avoiding these types of conversations can lead to conflict, hostility and emotional repression. Not everyone has access to a healthy and encouraging support network, and having no one to turn to can be incredibly isolating. There are plenty of resources online for people who are trying to help loved ones with mental health issues. But where are the resources for those of us who have to work towards becoming our own support network and deal with our mental health struggle alone?

One of the most significant things I’ve learned on my own journey is the importance of making time for self-care. Even the smallest things will make a difference, like brewing a cup of your favourite tea, or just watching a silly, feel-good movie. It’s the kind of thing you’ll find in every single self-help book on the market, but it’s there for a reason – it works. Sometimes shutting the world out every once in a while and taking a mental health day can be extremely beneficial too, or focusing on something that you’re passionate about. For me, this involves throwing myself into my writing, and pushing myself to discover as much new music as possible, ultimately tackling my own isolation on a social level and serving as a useful and enjoyable distraction.

That said, a crucial element of being your own support network is not allowing the distractions to take over. Let yourself to feel whatever you’re feeling, and if necessary, write it out. Journaling is one of the most common methods for coping with mental health, as it allows us to process and understand our emotions – particularly when we have no one else to confide in. Find whichever outlet works for you, and roll with it. Meanwhile, take note of what your triggers are and learn when to say no if something doesn’t benefit you or make you feel good. This has without a doubt been one of my toughest life lessons, but you should never apologise for putting your mental health first.

With this in mind, make it a priority to get the treatment you need. For some people, this is medication; for others, it’s therapy. Do your research and find out what resources are available in your area. From mental health projects to activity clubs and support groups, every local community has something going on. Ask your doctor, email your local council, or search online, but make the most of local support. Some of us don’t have an immediate support network to rely on, but if experience has taught me anything, it’s that there will always be someone to listen if you take the first step and reach out.

I’m nowhere near where I want to be on my mental health journey, and I know that it’s going to take a long time for me to get there. Taking a step back and moving home, no matter how stressful and hostile the environment may be, has actually been incredibly helpful. Allowing me to employ these techniques and understand what my real needs really are is the most useful thing I’ve learned in 23 years. The most important thing is to remember, however, is that we’re not actually alone; everyone has a story to tell.

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guest writer, poetry

Before It Happened

CW: sexual assault. 

 

you have to understand

who i was before it happened.

 

youth surged through my veins

seeped from every pore

filled my sanguine lungs

laced every breath.

young and fun and a little dumb,

in my prime.

 

age five, high tide

some cloudy beach

each collapsing wave dissolves into

glitter and seafoam

think i could prolly drown here.

whip around, see the dunes

the seagulls on the shoreline

sherbet-colored beach houses

my mother under the umbrella

and i wave.

when you’re five, on the brink of

a vast expanse of ocean,

comprehend fear and endless depth,

then realize you are safe –

it’s a feeling akin to joy.

fling handfuls of wet sand

into the deep.

laugh, leap.

 

i have to remember

who i was before it happened.

 

i danced bachata at a party

liked cheetah print, Gwen Stefani

boys with cologne and roaming fingers

snuck raspberry vodka into water bottles

laughed at horror movies

lived for the summer,

made each one better than the last

 

on the precipice of self-discovery,

newness and bliss

when identities are malleable as clay

mine was molded for me.

happened right before the summer

 

in truth,

my life began inside my dorm room

frozen on the bed, numb under his weight

in a moment of recognition,

i looked back up toward the ceiling

and tried to see the seagulls on the shoreline

 

on cue –

the door clicked shut

and i began to adjust

to who i am now,

before it happened.

 

 * 

 

they call Dr. Ford an inspiration,

a warrior

and it’s hard not to agree.

strong backed and stoic,

right hand raised

eyes closed in an expression

that says this is her sacrifice,

her call of duty.

the chamber lights bathing her

in a pool of warmth and radiance,

trying to pretend she’s not before a row

of angry men

keen to burn her at the stake.

 

but unlike Joan of Arc,

who wanted the fire

something tells me

a warrior gets to choose

when to draw her weapons

and when to burn

 

Christine.

blonde and bright and brilliant

on the white cliffs of youth and summer

i like to think of her then, of who she was,

before it happened.

 

 

this is a battle

i have fought for so long

from the confines of a therapy room

to the National Mall

i have balled my hands into fists

made blows

screamed into the void

these are sacrifices i’m willing to make

this is pain i’m going to feel

this is a hill i’m willing to die on

and yet sometimes

 

i‘d rather have a tree to sleep under

and to dream of who i was

before it happened.

 

 

there was a time in your life

when trauma didn’t rear its ugly head

when there weren’t any nightmares

when you didn’t clutch your keys

when the world seemed opportune and bright

and when youth seemed a natural transition

into the womanhood you deserved

and the strength you always knew

you had in you.

 

so when you draw your weapons,

fight for your sisters and your daughters

fight for the world you’ve always wanted

 

but most of all, fight for you

for who you were

before it happened.

 

Photo by Iwan Shimko. For more work by Taylor Wear at Boshemia: Hot Dating Tips for the Completely Undatable, I’m Here! I’m Queer! I Promise, On Permanence, and  On Fleek || Lipstick Revolution.
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