The riot

I have written a thousand poems. And nine hundred of them are about you. Do you know what that means?

It means you’re bloody heavy. Get off my heart, and get out of my mind. I’ve had enough.

—  He Asked How Often I Write About Him | Nikita Gill

Congratulations! It’s a girl.

My story unfolded before I was born.
At five months, my parents bought clothes,
shoes, socks, blankets, and other things
in between that screamed PINK,
from the lightest to the boldest shade.
I grew up believing that there is no other color for me.
Fifteen years later, I am at this age
where my vagina is a hole that makes me whole,
that my bed is a home for a boy
who would till the land
that I need to fight for ownership.
that this heart of mine is meant to beat
for a dashing prince with a sword
and the speed of his white horse.
I am at this age where I am made to kneel,
to choke, to swallow.
I vomit with disgust as the words echo
through the silence of the night.
More than a thousand years later
I am still blamed for the fall men
because the existence
of my vagina.

Society tells me to stop talking,
to stop growing, to stop fighting.
My mouth is not just for kissing
the jerk who forced himself
on me after a shot of tequila.
My body is not for men
to cat call.
My body is not made for men.
My fists are made to punch
the standards society has
for women.

My story unfolded before I was born
but as a woman,
I learned how to take the pen
and rewrite my story.
At this age, I am no longer afraid
of getting laid
and hearing the murmurs.
I no longer quiver when I let my stomach show.
I no longer cry when they tell me that I am not beautiful.
I no longer die every time I tell people “she is just my friend”
when in truth, she is the reason why my heart is beating.

So let us stop the hurt and pain
whenever we try to make ourselves disappear.
Eat that cup of rice, or cups of rice,
and feed yourself like you are off to battle.
Your body is not a prison
for you to cage your wonderful soul.
Make a home out of your imperfections
and let yourself grow.
Do not be a slave to your scars.
I learned this the hard way but what matters
is that I learned how to start nourishing myself with love.
So the next time someone tells me I am “just” a woman,
I will no longer be afraid to use my fists and
voice to say I AM A WOMAN.

Our stories unfolded before we were born
but it is not too late to take that pen
and start writing our own stories.

We are people who deserve
to be equal and to be respected.

—  //i refuse to let my vagina define who i am

if angie doesn’t come back and the cartinelli friendship is just abandoned for another gal pal thing i swear to god i WILL riot