November 3, 2018

The Day She Finally Believed She was Magic. {Poem}

And then one day she decided,

It was time

To choke out fears of being “too much.”

A life of censorship was too goddamn boring,

An outdated story no longer fitting her bombshell spirit.

She wasn’t angry anymore,

A pretty head tilted back in psychotic laughter,

High-fiving the comic tragedy that told her she was anything less than magic.

She wasn’t special, and in the same breath, she was the most unique snowflake ever to fall from a stormy sky…

Simply because she was born. Just like you,

Impossible to replicate.

A serious responsibility.

Relentless hands waving, “I am here.”

Embarking on a wholehearted mission to wiggle back into her own tender skin of belonging,

The sexiest pair of human jeans,

Because she feels alive in the fabric of her black boots.

Belly laughter shakes her body free, into an unselfconscious work of breathing art,

Ordinary and extraordinary,

Bopping through the streets with a “top 10” hit she wrote all by herself.

Carrying cardboard signs of protest,

“F*ck the hatersespecially the ones in my own head.”

Her witch powers hexing the inner critics of terrifying greatness.

An indomitable spirit wrapped in a superhero cape, flying down to earth,

Embracing her sweet face between brave hands, attached to the arms she calls her own.

A “knightina” in shining armor saves herself from secret scars of “not enoughness.”

Warrior women, staring down an army of self-doubt, battling their own savvy minds for permission to shine.

Surrendering the weapons of “guilt and shame” because dizzy cartwheels are so much more fun.

Spinning circles of questions around a “should” and “shouldn’t” existence.

A language, “girls like us” do not comprehend,

“But whys?” reverberating through our rebel bones.

We boldly reintroduce ourselves, no longer accepting the written script of “who we are supposed to be.”

Fresh hurricane winds whisper our names howling through the darkest nights.

Messy hair is free to fly on a wild swing, moving madly through the rhythms of

I got too big for your “ring girl” boxes.

I am more. I am enough. I will roar. We will roar.

An army of wolves sinking sharp teeth, into your “nice ass” words, that no longer belong here.

Our bass drops deep into a fierce melody of #metoos.

Dirty bare feet pointing to the sky

Signposts written on old painted toes—feeling our way home.

Unshackling the heavy weight of

Barbie Doll lies

The cage door wide open, because we broke the f*ck out,

Lipstick remnants paint the walls,


Graffiti splattered,

With blood, tears, and heartbreak.

Everyday women bodies,

Determined to rise.

Mud spread across our precious cheeks—earthy war paint.

Curled up in the heartbeat of green grass,

Climbing up the highest tree, unafraid to fall.

Bowing to our grounded teachers, gutsy wills that die when the seasons demand change.

Our handmaid tales were etched on your bark,

Strong enough to survive the morphing colors, decomposing “us and them” into worms,

Only to be reborn in a patient bud of spring.

We are a forest.

We have the power to recreate

The story of ourselves.

And that is nothing less than magic.


“Magic happens when you don’t give up, even though you want to. The universe always falls in love with a stubborn heart.” ~ Jm Storm

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