But then I am reminded of radical femme activists like Kim Crosby who say her makeup is her war paint in this patriarchal and sexist world, that womyn are damned either way for not fitting some arbitrary standards, that beautification and adornment are all ancient practices in our indigenous communities, and that Black womyn already start at a deficit on the white supremacist beauty scale, that centuries of being misrepresented, desexualised or hypersexualised still haunts us. And that somewhere in Lagos, Toronto, Kampala, Nairobi, there is a little girl being convinced her skin is too dark, her nose too broad and hair too nappy. That I can wear mascara and talk world politics at the same damn time. That I can ball freshly painted nails into black power fists. That there is a need to reclaim adornment for Black womyn.
With a bit of time to process the election results, I have decided to take action to keep the American Dream alive..
I have donated to planned parenthood in honour of Hillary Clinton. For the women, lgbtq*, POC, Muslims, indigenous and every other individual who is hurting from this outcome… Lets not give up and lets all do our part to keep fighting the good fight.
Fake deep guys be like “I’m not here for all this makeup, and fake hair, fake boobs, fake lashes and fake nails. I like my women all natural. Organic. Vegan. Free from all these toxic pesticides. Free-range, grass-fed, fresh off the soil. I like my women sun-dried and wrapped in fresh kale, medium ripe with a side of chia seeds. Ethically grown women. All the extra chemicals, preservatives and additives will kill you. Support locally farmed women. Matter of fact, just grow your own.”
- An impromptu poem and friendly reminder that women were not put on this Earth for male consumption.
i’m twenty years old,
i love my middle name, i don’t eat mustard or sweet peas, i’m right-handed and i’ve never met a shrimp that i didn’t like.
i’m from a small town in louisiana, population less than 6,000 people. i’m terrified of getting stung by a bee, i enjoy people watching, long soaks in the tub, laughing for absolutely no reason and spoken word poetry binges on youtube.
i love the color purple, the sounds of nature, gazing up at small town stars. i snort when i laugh and always mix-match my socks. i’m five-foot-four…
on a really good hair day,
and taking my glasses off turns the world into a vision of bokeh.
i love lists and listening to thunderstorms, good luck getting me out of bed on a rainy morning.
i aggressively do not like one-armed hugs, and always
appreciate a corny joke.
my two left feet are always getting tangled up on nothing,
clumsy would be an understatement.
i can’t sing, but i still do. in the shower, loudly. on my way around campus, to and from class. sometimes just in my head is enough, so those days I forget my headphones at home make riding the bus unbearable.
i have a laugh like rain clap, a heart that’s wild and untamed. i am a sentimental, unusual, norm-defying, weird rule breaker who questions everything, including myself.
more myself than anything else. i’m still learning not to put too much stock in first impressions.
i’m still unlearning, still uninternalizing.
working on myself without any interruptions from misogynoir, not being ashamed of the double negatives in my ebonics or my black and womyn.
i stopped having guilty pleasures. stopped being ashamed of the things that bring me joy. reminding myself, always that what i think is important. what i believe is vital. that it’s okay to erase, always okay to change, to endlessly create myself, to always be who i want to be.
i’m all one dimpled smiles and social justice rants, sunflower fields
and purple sunsets. i’m a huge book nerd, so if you ever ask me if I feel like going to the bookstore … the answer will always be yes.
i used to be unsaid words and bitten tongues, clipped wings and burnt edges. i’m still unlearning what i need to let myself fly.
i am a good book and a warm cup of tea while the rain pours.
cupping myself in my palms,
cradling who i was always meant to be.
i am pressed flowers and lost trains of thought, chipped nail polish and unfinished poetry.
i am unapologetic laughter, crumpled bits and picked scabs, quirky sarcasm and unrequited crushes. i am a puzzle piece of oxymorons.
i am a quilt of wild tenderness, broken taboos and the ocean’s mystery, all stitched together with good intentions and contradictions. i know that if your feminism isn’t intersectional, it’s bullshit.
and that most times, you have to be the womyn of your own dreams, have to be your own standard of beauty.
i know that it takes strength to stay soft and vulnerable in the face of this world’s flames, and that you have to learn to use your heart like a seatbelt in this twisted road trip life.
i am the chewed fingernails that this thing called anxiety has spent years gnawing on,
i’m still learning how to untie the knotted rope it sometimes turns my stomach into, how to stop it when it fishes for and reels my tongue back into itself.
i know that the world is a recycling bin. there’s nothing new under the sun, but that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t tell your story anyway.
i’m spilling my secrets like constellations, connecting parts of me together and spilling them on pages.
i know that my second heart lives in my pen, transliterating my thoughts into poetry, writing out loud until my breaking becomes a metaphor.
i’ve been a writer for as long as i can remember, but i only recently began the radical act of self love that is stepping on stage, feeding the garden sprouting in the pit of my stomach,
these succulents and sunflowers,
the sunsets resting in the apples of my cheeks,
violets blooming from my eyes.
somedays i feel more like a pen running out of ink, left with only the spaces of myself.
i’m still learning self love like a broken mirror, like a training wheel tricycle, stumbling and spilling into myself.
despite everything this world throws at my hopeless romantic heart, i still believe in happy endings.
So there have been a lot of people and posts on here that are calling me names like “troll” or whatever because of my views on social justice issues regarding things like gender, sexuality, rape, feminism, and worthy causes like that.
First of all, most of these people are cishet white people of privilege, and thusly their opinions are literally invalid. They are certainly not worth your time, or my time, or anyone’s.
Secondly, I assure you, I am not a troll - far from it. I joined Tumblr not too long ago to join with like-minded people who believe in logic, justice, and fairness in the security of a community of people who are open-minded enough to discuss things that actually matter, like cissexual/cisgendered privilege, rape, etc.
People that have called me a troll or whatever include: