3.6
December 22, 2019

Stop Trying to Handle Me.

Stop trying to handle me.

I am not a UPS package, labeled and scheduled for on-time delivery.

I am a wild card. A joker. An enigmatic mystery, they all seem to fall in love with.

Because I am not trying.

I refuse to hold numbers in my panties, when I was born to fight in the ring.

Just like you.

You say I’m “entitled.”

And I say, “Yes, we are.”

Entitled to tear open the box of, “this is what a woman should look like.”

I am not a magazine picture, filtered, altered, and wrinkle free—

Contorted to fit your definition of “beauty.”

I am not Instagram photos of my butt, boobs, and lips.

I am a human being. Who won’t shut up, give up, or stop talking.

Because we have something to say.

I am indomitable, emotional, and sensitive, susceptible to change, because I cannot be controlled.

You call me crazy, and I say genius, because I envision a world where my four-year-old niece will not be measured by the size of her ass.

Instead, her magic hands will pick wildflowers, tender feet run bare through grass, and her witty tongue will always catch raindrops.

Stop calling us, “too much,” “too intense,” or saying, “she’s a lot.”

I laugh loud enough to shake a warehouse.

I take up space without words.

I apologize when I have hurt someone, but not for my existence.

I snuggle with death, because I know light needs darkness to shine.

Beyond black and white, right and wrong, should and shouldn’t, you will find me dancing.

Banshee moans, just because it feels good.

I am unashamed to share my needs.

Vulnerability is our superpower.

Haunting intimacy reminding us who we are.

Connected.

No, I am not a tomboy. I am not a b*tch. I am not a man-hater. I am not selfish.

But I am tired.

Tired of shrinking to protect your ego.

I am not a special snowflake.

I am the whole goddamn storm, still not sorry that I am “too much” to handle.

Stardust streams down my cheeks, because the world will always be tragically beautiful.

Unimpressed by the Big Bad Wolf, because she decided Little Red Riding Hood had choices.

She took her hood off, ditched the picnic basket, and wrote her own savage fairy-tales.

Waiting for a hero was too goddamn boring,

So with bloody knees, legs shaking with imperfection, she stood up and rallied her sisters.

She knew circles were stronger.

To all the warrior women who didn’t follow the Yellow Brick Road, but moved with their own true colors,

We thank you.

The revolutionary women, who were told, “no” and still said, “yes,”

We thank you.

The witchy women, burned at stake for possessing magic, intuition, and a sixth sense,

We thank you.

The liberated women who sat down on buses, followed the moon to freedom, and knew children are our future,

We thank you.

The angry women who wore scarlet letters because they refused to obey,

We thank you.

The compassionate women whose fierce love wept bitterly at the feet of injustice,

We thank you.

To all women,

We need you.

Let your fire stay wild. Roll dirty in the ashes. Listen to your bone wisdom.

Be unapologetically you, because the world is waiting, and you are the one.

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