Nope. Not today, Josh. What’s the male equivalent to Karen? Probably Brad or Dave.
Something is wrong with you for thinking there is something wrong with me. I’ve tied up my boots’ straps just as you have. I’ve buttoned all the buttons on my overcoat. I shat out a PhD while you tilled the fields. My education sows the seeds of your future. My laces are taught with the lining of my uterus. Like sinew: long-lasting, weather-resistant – the perfect choice.
Do your loins cause you to speak without thought? If women’s tongues connect to their brain and heart, I’d assume yours is connected to your ass.
I’m so fucking tired of the male gaze… of arrogance, entitlement, and dollops of hollow self-confidence. I’m still waiting for my graphic tee that reads, “Walk with the confidence of a mediocre white man”.
Look at us – look at all we are doing – crafting castles of yarn, felt, twigs and Earth. All for you to visit, to tread upon, to leave your mark.
She blows up her belly and swallows him whole. He was born too soon, his thoughts unformed, premature, back into the belly you go – turn to 425 – cook until done.
Brown tousled hair. Green eyes. A knowing. Unthreatened and invincible. No ladder to climb – just a few steps if he’s lucky. Glowing and gloating. Floating on the shoulders of his forefathers. The grandmothers are mountains – they look on in stillness, smiling. Sending their thoughts of wisdom on the wind.
A frog in his path. He sinks in the mud. The wind picks up the leaves and ruffles his hair. If only he could see, and one day know the truths. You small sprite, covered in mud. We sent that frog. We placed the mud. We shook the leaves from the trees.
where rivers are born 