Sometimes I Wish I Never Took a Women’s Studies Class


Sometimes I wish I never took a women’s studies class. How, once I saw the war against us, I could not unsee it. How aware I became of the billboards and their slow twist of my arm. The lipsticks I used to collect, and love, suddenly many-hued bullets. Walking out from the midnight of a movie theatre into the shock of day, my friends laughter popping like corn, saying how great the movie was, and me, the blanket wet with phrases like, ‘the male gaze! ‘, ‘heteronormative!’ ‘complete and utter objectification of women!’

I miss the days when I could enjoy a fucking movie, or the silk of a shaven leg. I miss not having an existential crisis in the hairstylist’s chair saying, ‘no, i’m going to keep it long this summer.’ Miss the days when I wanted the men to look — when I thought ‘not like other girls’ was a compliment. I miss the days way back, further back, when I could pin a picture of a princess on my wall and feel proud—I even wished it when I was in that courtroom—when I could have still been a girl who let things go, who said the threats were not so bad, said ‘boys will be boys’ and let him tell me how pretty I’d look murdered.

But I was glad for those classes that day, in his room, when I said, ‘No’, and he said, ‘Must’, and I laced up my boots and got on a train, any train, not sure where home was but knowing damn well where it wasn’t.

-Megan Falley has been writing a poem a day, every day for the year of 2014. “Sometimes I Wish I Never Took…” was her 193rd poem of the year.

Anonymous said: Hi where can I buy your book? I absolutely love your poems. They make me feel like you understand me, and can put my feelings and emotions into words. You're amazing.

Thank you so much! You can currently purchase my book in both digital and print versions on the Where Are You Press etsy webpage. xoxo 

baby’s all dressed up with nowhere to go

Anonymous said: reading your poems feels like having a blanket curling up around me reassuring me that all i've ever felt was valid <3

I think the most comforting thing about writers and writing in general is that we’re here to remind you that you’re not alone in what you feel or think or say or do. Thank you.

Peel yourself up off the bathroom floor
and stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself.
It’s not like it’s Valentine’s Day and you have
no one to love. It’s been months and you’re still
waiting for someone to kiss you but this is not
the worst that you’ve been through. You always
said you were going to do better so start doing
what you want. Wear more red. Cut your hair
like a boy’s or grow it out so long you need
a procession to follow you around and carry it
behind you like a wedding veil. In this body
you sit and sit and wonder who’s going to ring
the doorbell next. You can’t make anyone love you.
In the kitchen your mother mixes salt and sugar
and flour together and you could mess this up
but she’ll still kiss you on the forehead and say things
like proud and responsible and trustworthy
to the neighbors. Let her. Some days the sadness
will be so heavy you won’t be able to feel your hands.
So much happens inside of you that it can be hard
to separate cell division from your paper tissue heart
and you may never remember this feeling again,
but you are the home that you’ve built for yourself.
I know you’re afraid of losing those you love
but don’t you know we have all night.

Kristina Haynes, “How to Survive”


Touch, Jessica Williams

got my lazy ass in gear and wrote two full poems today but let me tell you something about struggle

I’m shadow puppeteering
our next kissing contest,
funded by the grant
of your lower lip.

My hands collect your back
like taxes. I want more fingers,
toes, freckles as abacuses
to count your return.

Your mouth auto corrects
my body language. Your voice
hangs like streamers. I walk
like cursive.

Jesse Bradley, “You Can’t Spell Monogamy Without ‘Mono’” (via haleighhappiness)


We destroy what we love. 

Vodka so strong I have to hold my nose
to swallow to get it down and even then it is like
a lightning storm in my stomach. There is music
playing loudly and they are chanting
my name as I take three shots, no pause.
It’s rushing down my throat hot and quick,
and after, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
the skin shining like I’ve kissed myself.
The only way to drink it is to convince yourself
that you need it. It’s late but this is what our bodies
are made for, vessels for the music that vibrates
its way through our veins like escape. Surprise
we are throwing up our dinner in the yard
surprise he is kissing you like he’s starving
surprise I didn’t think I would mind. Our
legs unforgivable things in our dresses, mouths
devastating in the glaring summer night. Our hips,
gleaming, wild things. We feel safest in the backseat
of the car because we don’t know where it’s going.

Kristina Haynes, “Backwash”

Right now my heart & your heart are taking bong rips,
giggle-cuddling, hoping one will kiss the other by accident.
They are stupid, smitten with smoke. Accidents do happen,
after all. Bands break up on tour; best friends fuck
the same confused girl. Nothing sacred but the spells
that spin the world in reverse.

Emily O’Neill, “I’ll Admit It,” published in Word Riot (via bostonpoetryslam)


Beauty from Chanel Cruise 2015 show

There is no room in my heart for important men who surround themselves with flowers. Take the garland of wives and daughters from around your neck. That you feel safe they would not choke you makes me sick.

Ginger Ko, “Flora,” published in Hot Metal Bridge (via bostonpoetryslam)

This is what I’m embarrassed about:
spying on you while you text other girls,
studying my pores in the magnifying mirror
that hangs in my mother’s bathroom.
The stretchmarks on my knees and the insides
of my elbows. He apologizes for the blood
in my panties but bites my neck, picks my skin
from his teeth. All of my friends are packing up
and moving to New York and I am too scared
to explore how this makes me feel in a poem.
An easy truth is my dresses are getting tighter.
I only feel like a girl after I’ve painted my nails
or waxed the dark shadow of hair between
my thighs. Funny how we believe anything
will make us smoother by rubbing it
into our skin. It takes a lot of mascara
to convince me of my own prettiness.

Kristina Haynes, “Feminine Worries”