The Art of a Woman
How it is and how it always will be.
There is no greater feeling than despair. It accompanies every emotion and eats you from the inside out. It's overwhelming, the loss of control, the inability to pull this back from the brink. Spending nights clambering, clawing your way through a sea of emotions muddled feelings you pretend do not exist.
You try to excuse it as hunger, those skinny girls are always so angry and feeding it only makes it worse. Blame loneliness, but the company of a thousand cannot quell the churning in your stomach. Biting more than you can chew and leaving disaster in your wake.
You set fires you have not the energy to extinguish, burning bridges you cannot live without. There is no reason for your tears, but they do not rationalize and will not stop falling.
There is a little war inside of you and the victor is waving their red flag to remind you they've won.
There is no glory here, no prizes or rewards for discovering the key to the puzzle; only the relief in knowing.
The art of a woman is being able to stand when everything inside her is breaking apart.
About the Creator
Linxi Van Romanovski
An obsession with origin stories, I write and rewrite my own. I don’t need a happy ending, I just need to know there is something else, something other than this. Give me something worth believing.
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Shame That Is Not Shameful
Actions cannot be undone, words cannot be unsaid. There is an ineloquence to her silence, it is loud and it is blunt. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears, a taunting metronome beating each second as if teaching her a lesson; she learns to self-medicate, to stop from self-deprecating; numbing from the inside out. Enabling her own destruction, she is biting the hand that feeds her and biting her tongue.
By Linxi Van Romanovski6 years ago in Poets
Discriminate
Authors note: I originally published this with no explanatory note, after a conversation with my partner in which we both agreed that no one would think these were my views, it was sufficiently over the top for it to be evidently a caricatured collection of some of the "microaggressive" things that can be said by people of one race to those of another. And lets be clear, I had in mind a white man talking to a black man in a country in which white is the majority. I wrote this after a conversation I had at work about the idea of microaggressions, in which we thought about who they were micro for - for the speaker, each of these comments may feel "micro", for the receiver, maybe not. I chose some of these lines carefully and deliberately, most of them are things I have heard said. But I wanted to come back and make absolutely clear that this is not a poem representing my views. We thought I didn't need to, but perhaps its not actually so very over the top as a caricature. Perhaps its a little too close to the bone. Perhaps that I would assume otherwise is in itself an illustration of my privilege.
By Hannah Moore2 days ago in Poets
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