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.
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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.
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