I. WHAT IS A WOMAN?
you say she's a feeling. as if you could grasp the heart beneath her breast, taking a hold of her breath. as if you could curl each finger around her veins and trace it's tremor from the back of your palms. counting her heartbeat in-between each squeeze. playing god. in and out of prayer. you could crush it if you wanted too. i crack her ribcage to see the truth and out comes the holy bible, scripture tucked away in her vessels. you tore them open and told me to feel for it. pierce though the spirit and peace shall find you. i'm left blinded in bath of her blood. i don't feel woman. i don't feel woman. i don't feel her. so what is she?
II. SHE IS AN IDENTITY.
womanhood in not a costume you can wear off. you mistake women for wardrobe. female for feminine. mother with martyr. sister for submissive. you ascribe the idea of a woman as a woman. your idea of her so gendered and gentrified she must not be a woman if she's human.
you point behind me. tight flesh covered in a dress. nine-inch heels strangled at her ankles. lipstick smeared lips. hairless like the day she was born, i dig beneath her lipstick stained lips. i palm her newborn legs. skin silk and smooth. ironed out of all individuality. eyebrows and nails manicured as if she's some pet. that woman is not real. she is not born she is created. an idealized fantasy retching from your thoughts that you painted as reality, rinsing the minds of bright women everywhere thinking that is is what she must be.
you navel gaze so much you don't even realize the umbilical chord is around your neck. asking what is a woman as if you haven't come out of out. pretending you only come from a planet of men. manufacturing ignorance because it's safer than to be smart. waxing words from their meanings so it's tender flesh can yield, bleed, and break. you are no god. you are no savior. you will not redefine what you will never create. i'm no idea of yours. i am whole. i am alive. my body will not be divided.
III. I KNOW WHAT A WOMAN IS
and i think you do too.
