EVERY SINGLE REBLOG
WILL GET A THING IN THEIR ASK
OF YOU ACTUALLY
247 REBLOGS, I HAD TO GO THROUGH. I HIT ASK LIMIT LITERALLY EVERY HOUR. AND MOST OF YOU DON’T EVEN APPRECIATE IT. AUUGH
HOW THE FUCK…
I’m crying because when my dad was eighteen he was going to join the airforce and then the night before he had a dream that Jesus slapped him in the face with a gigantic fish and asked him what he was doing and he woke up and thought, “Jesus is right what am I doing?” And that’s why my dad did not join the military.
But really I probably wouldn’t have been born if my dad hadn’t been fish slapped in the face by dream Jesus and I can’t even
Apart from my sisters, estranged
from my mother, I am a woman alone
in a house of men
call themselves princes, alone
with me usually, under cover of dark. I am the one allowed in
to the royal chambers, whose small foot conveniently
fills the slipper of glass. The woman writer, the lady
umpire, the madam chairman, anyone’s wife.
I know what I know.
And I once was glad
of the chance to use it, even alone
in a strange castle, doing overtime on my own, cracking
the royal code. The princes spoke
in their fathers’ language, were eager to praise me
my nimble tongue. I am a woman in a state of siege, alone
as one piece of laundry, strung on a windy clothesline a
mile long. A woman co-opted by promises: the lure
of a job, the ruse of a choice, a woman forced to bear witness, falsely
against my kind, as each
other sister was judged inadequate, bitchy, incompetent,
jealous, too thing, too fat. I know what I know.
What sweet bread I make
for myself in this prosperous house
is dirty, what good soup I boil turns
in my mouth to mud. Give
me my ashes. A cold stove, a cinder-block pillow, wet
canvas shoes in my sisters’, my sisters’ hut. Or I swear
I’ll die young
like those favored before me, hand-picked each one
for their joyful heart.