Some days the mountains I move are stormy inside my mind. Rain falls out of my eyes. Tunnels to the soul. My mouth is a cave and bats lay there too. I have a snake for a tongue. But there are flowers in my hair, and sunshine in my smile. Wind rushes through my lungs. Ice resides in shame. There are thorns in my jealousy and buttercups in my joy. I am a forest. Often forbidden and parts still unexplored.
I went out dancing last week, and they all laughed because I had forgotten to shave my legs. I haven’t plucked my eyebrows in weeks, they meet in the middle like friends holding hands. Yesterday I read poetry for three hours and I thought about the world. My mind is a palace. But I was caught in the same dress two weekends on the run so no-body cares.
Please don’t tell me the gory details. Just shave or wax or thread, pluck and pray the hair away from your skin. Use a discreet tampon and tuck away your bra straps if you don’t want them looking. Please don’t leak on my bedsheets and be quick while you clean my cum out of your body. Clean your vagina. Steam your vagina. Tighten your vagina. Tighten your face. Tighten your dress. Clean your make up brushes. Exfoliate. Use charcoal toothpaste. Stop being a bitch because of your contraception.
Sometimes I cry when I listen to music. I like to lay in the grass when it’s warm. How privileged of me to have the time to sit and think about things. Who am I to sit on my throne of rose petals and complain? Sometimes I wonder if I can be beautiful and brave all at once. When did my opinion become my battle cry? I am not sure when pen became sword.
Some days, the mountains I move are glorious inside my mind. They are built from marble, capped with snow and decorated in wildflowers. Rain falls out from my eyes. Tunnels to the soul. Sometimes I want to take off my armour. I want to be soft. To float away.
Please don’t pluck and pick away at my sisters. We women are the waters of the world. To try and hold us down, to try and control how we flow and move, is to try and grab a handful of a river. You will be left with only a clenched fist. And we water women will take our energy elsewhere.