with the moon
She’s not a sinner
A delicate flower
A red rose
For all the women who have been called unclean for bleeding life, your blood is beautiful!
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The sound of tyres
tearing through puddles of water in the streets.
Silver droplets falling from the sky unto my glasses,
creating a checkerboard of steam and dots.
The smell of musty air
thick and heavy like walking through water.
The taste of wet grass sticks to my tongue
as I breathe in the morning breeze.
My foot slips as I step on broken, wet leaves,
trampled upon by hurried feet rushing to catch up to the sun.
How did we do it?
It was never easy.
We shouldn’t have done it.
I mean, they thought we couldn’t.
The odds were stacked
as high as the Heavenly Stairs,
there was nothing heavenly about them.
we broke in half.
The bell rang and yet
we kept going.
We saw it.
We saw a bright white light
shining down on us.
The heavens acknowledged
We had dreams
of our daughters
dancing on broken glass.
We had visions of our blood
fueling the fire
that burned in their hearts.
We refused to be corrected.
Scientist. Photographer. Writer. Avid mental health advocate. Poet, often. Memoirist, on occasion. Storyteller, without exception.