We were running so fast, lost our hold
on reality
it became a normal thing to
wake when darkness blotted sky with festive blackout
silence roamed halls of disapproval with tender switch
then I tasted, the purity of life
like a distilled drink, untouched by sweetness
this draft did not yield to usual fears
of becoming irrelevant as a woman
shifting weightless from one state of being to another
without permission, no discernible change
save the decisions made in our absence
by controller of who we are, when we don’t yet know
how to halt the discourse, throw stereotype and expectation
out with convention
the whip and goad of woman since
first she was brought to her knees and told
I control the discourse, your identity is shaped
and fractured by my say-so
I label your value or deem you worthless
because you are too old
beyond a date in time
there the guillotine falls
sorry you’re on this side now, without your head
sorry you can’t gain admittance into our club
we only like them fresh and mailable
any woman who thinks for herself, must be trouble
make up rules to control her, keep her cowed
give her endometrium and other punishments
it’s all rather biblical, said the atheist as he
inserted the next record of tricks
some cruelty smells like him
and his turpentine prostituted room
burning on false fuel, I was only 18 then
yesterday and a century later
we don’t oblige women with scars and fat
nor sagging breasts, nor any chin hair
if you’re greying or balding, go fuck yourself
no one else will
the seat in the waiting room is a laundry shute
out with the old, in with the new
we have voracious appetite for shiny flesh and unstrung hymens
I borrowed some platforms and sewed up my leaks
put on a negligee and three layers of peat
the bog man looked pretty good for his age too
hide behind war paint, chew through your sickness
give me succor baby, give me raspberry crush, give me voodoo
lovers who oblige the second time around and the fourth and the fifth
standing freezing outside Hotel St. Pierre
drinking your waste and glut of youth
I gained admittance on false pretense
hasn’t it always be that way?
change your name, gender, race
put on another person’s face, inherit for a day
or an hour or a life time
all the little girls want your number now
all the boys want to pray between your legs
serve me something unshaven and hot instead
there are fevers in the walls, trying to get out
we have three minutes until it’s midnight
then illusions are exposed, everyone sees the truth
middle-age never used to be a purple bruise
we made it this far
tomorrow the sun is coming out
remove the war-paint, undo divining spell
maybe the light won’t extinguish you
I want you to like me, for who I am
not the girl who tricks you with her little doll cries
was it yesterday or last century?
we lay beneath your blanket and you impregnated me
with the urge to live forever, never grow old
even the beautiful turn to grub and worm food
live fearlessly, wear yourself boldly, you said
as you eased the knife to the sweet spot
cutting upward from your pulse, in thin
traceable, scarlet lines
Reblogged this on TheFeatheredSleep and commented:
My latest post on Whisper and the Roar
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Is there a strange gap, a limbo, between the desired nymph and the wise crone, a place of not having a place?
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I’m speechless. This piece is a perfect example of your abilities as a writer. The images and emotions that you evoke. Resonant, powerful. Just wow dear friend 🖤🖤❤️❤️🖤🖤
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Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
Candice Louisa Daquin brings a meditation on being a no longer young woman to The Whisper And The Roar.
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This is raw, life hesitating on the edge, and it’s a knife either side.
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Oh. My. Word. ❤️❤️❤️
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I’m with her – Kindra.
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Superb statement of inequality
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