today i've clothed myself in a floral skirt,
littered with violets.
my chest is bonded by peonies,
begging to not be seen-
but the hues are ruthlessly vibrant.
i am a woman where it counts most.
but the idea of such stains my fingers red,
as if they are raw from braiding my own hair.
i write of flowers as if it never grows old.
i write of love as if i am not forever standing on a bridge,
waiting for it to be lost.
i am a woman because i have chosen to be,
not because she granted me it.
i am a woman when i am with you,
because briefly i am reminded of the raw emotion,
and purity i was gifted upon falling.
i've come to an epilogue- and i wonder if it will transition into the prologue i first made.
stumbling like a fawn,
discovering the femininity in such a jarring and senseless love,
lost to the masculine,
the learning of a new feminine.
i am a woman,
when i know how.
i am a woman,
when you're near,
and i've planted my violets in the ground.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
