I am a feminist because when I tell people I am an actress, they ask if I’ve slept with directors, because it is so inconceivable to them that as a woman I should receive a part based on my talent and not how good I am in bed.

I am a feminist because the boys that I live with think it is okay to tell me to wear a thong because my panty line makes them uncomfortable.
The day I dress for a man is the day I’m dressed for Heaven.

I am a feminist because when I wore a backless dress on New Year’s Eve, a man told me that it meant that I was “asking for it”, and the way he said it I knew he accepted it as a fact. I gave him the middle finger and glared at any man who leered at me that night.

I am a feminist because since the age of 12 I have been told that a boy’s education is more important than my own, through the classes missed because my shoulders are showing and my shorts length is distracting the boys.

I am a feminist because when I walk across campus, passing a group of boys 12 feet from my residence fills me with such terror that my feet speed up and tears burn at the corners of my eyes.

I am a feminist because the first thing I do when I see a man on the street is think of all possible escape routes and take an inventory of what I can use as a weapon.

I am a feminist because seeing a man stare at me through the bus window fills me with dread, not only from a fear of being attacked but because I know I will be told it was my fault for taking the bus alone.

I am a feminist because statistics say 1 in 5 woman are victims of sexual assault, and that means that at least one of my baby cousins, at least one of my best friends, will be or has been assaulted and that thought makes me physically ill.

I am a feminist because people still think it’s okay to ignore the problem, because the first response when I bring up the issue is “not all men”. No, not all men, but enough men that I can’t walk home alone. Every man I see is innocent or a potential rapist, and there is no in between.

I am a feminist because girls are still taught that if they don’t take protective measures, the rape is their fault, and boys are never taught that just because she is a woman, does not mean she is theirs to touch.

I am a feminist because feminism is about fighting for gender equality, for making the streets a safer place to be alone, for making the issue one that is discussed openly without anger.

I am a feminist, and if you have a problem with that, you can go home alone tonight.

For The Boys Who Won’t Date Feminists, M.M.A. (via rookiekid)

(Source: osnesqueen)

Reblogged from seananmcguire
12
Oct
SKIRT STEAK GIRLS

The only girl in a handful of backseat boys, I sit
shotgun without calling it. The song pounding through
the radio says Bitch every Bitch other Bitch word.

One boy assures me I am not like other girls.
Out of habit, I thank him for the compliment.

I listen to them speak of women like menus;

medium-rare
lace skirt
trimmed steak.

I cross my legs and nearly fold my voice
into a teal blue Tiffany’s box.

This is the part where I prove that I am chill.
I can hang, guys. Who says feminists are a buzzkill?

As we turn the corner, there is a gaggle of young
women. The driver of the car I am in leans out the window and spits

How much?

Eyes wide as dinner plates, they scurry away like shot
pool balls, as I have done so many times.

The whole van hoots, fist-bumps, hollers. There are not enough seats
for both a woman and the joke to fit comfortably in the car.

I keep my rant about feminism and rape culture
as a ponytail holder around my wrist.

In a fish tank of predators, I wonder if I, too, am a predator
by association.

When I get the courage to say something,
I am two weeks late and encouraged by Bacardi.

I start by assuring him that he is a Good Person,
which is why I’m telling him this in the first place.

I have to make this matter to him. I have to bring up
his sister, his mother, his girlfriend-
I have to make this accessible to him.

It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to inform
the sexist, politely.

It is the dilemma of the woman
who wishes to be heard-

Let us give you this reality check
with a spoonful of sugar.

Let us make this easier for you to hear
than it is for us to live.
SKIRT STEAK GIRLS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
Reblogged from seananmcguire
11
Oct

"Are you gonna write about this?"

Like his mediocre lines
and the way he butchered the names of Thai food
had me shaking at the knees.
Like that was something worth noting.

I still wrote three poems about my last dinner date.
I live in a world where I am blessed to believe that
everything is something worth noting.

But people tell me that if I keep writing poetry
about every mouth I meet,
nobody’s going to want to kiss me anymore.

The first time that someone compared my poems
to Taylor Swift songs,
I didn’t know that it wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.
It turns out they weren’t saying: “thank you
for your honesty, your openness, your willingness
to make life into art even when it gets tough to pronounce”.

They were saying: “All you write are love poems.”
Like that wasn’t okay.
Like that was somehow discrediting or laughable.
They were saying: “You go on too many dates
and you can’t make them stay.”
And I don’t know how to shake that off.

I live in a world where I am blessed to believe that
everything is something worth noting,
even bad dinner dates.
I also live in a world where a 24 year old Taylor Swift
can’t write about bad dinner dates anymore.
A world where she has sworn off dating and written an album
with a curt nod to love instead of a wide smile,
because she’s sick of her love life being an American pastime,
a comedic punchline every time she leaves the house.

“Watch out: she might write a song about you!”

God forbid she tells the world that you’re a sloppy kisser.
God forbid she tells the world that it still hurts that you left.

She is a girl with a big heart and a bigger mouth
and she owns everything that ever happens to her.

I own everything that ever happens to me

and I refuse straddle the line between privacy and honesty
for the sake of someone else’s comfort level.
I will not be a Disney mermaid
willing to give up her own voice for love.

Forget legs.
Choke on water, choke on ink.
I will not kiss another man who refuses to learn how to swim.

"Me vs. Taylor Swift vs. Ariel" Trista Mateer (via simply-sloth)

Trista Mateer, everyone.

(via clementinevonradics)

(Source: tristamateer)

Reblogged from seananmcguire
9
Oct

When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.

Reblogged from seananmcguire
29
Sep
i don’t need you
to fight my battles,
i just need
for you to be there
when my hands
begin to tremble
and my voice breaks,
to help me
steady my sword
and teach me
how to roar.
m.v., I am my own savior, you are a companion. (via findingwordsforthoughts)
Reblogged from coggirl
26
Sep

When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.

Reblogged from cyclopette
31
Aug
November 19th, 2013,
‘Selfie’ was named the Word of the Year by the Oxford Dictionary
Pseudo-intellectuals everywhere cried about the ‘death of the English language’
Because God forbid modern colloquial speech be recognised as valid.
Time Magazine refers to ‘millenials’ as the ‘me me me generation’
Selfish, all we care about is personal gratification
Lazy, entitled, shallow narcissists.
A picture of a girl taking a selfie on her phone is used for the cover
Because our selfishness can be summed up in the fact that we like how we look enough to document it.
We are consumed, they tell us, with our self image.
Everything is about us.
Me-me-me.
With the addition of every word to the dictionary,
‘Hashtag’. ‘Perf’. ‘Sexting’. ‘Totes’. ‘Selfie’,
The ‘me-me-me’ generation continues to make it all about ourselves,
And we should, they tell us, weep,
We should weep because we are entitled,
Because all we care about are selfies and parties and Instagram,
Because this is the generation that will one day run the world,
And for that, we should weep,
Because all we are is ‘me-me-me’.
Let me tell you something.
Every year, university tuition will be 2.3% more expensive for MY GENERATION,
MY GENERATION reports the highest levels of anxiety and depression than ANY other generation,
15% more of US than YOU will go to university,
But 46% of MY GENERATION won’t find a job until over a year after law school,
MY GENERATION, on average, is $47,628 in debt.
58% of girls in MY GENERATION feels like they are the wrong weight,
95% of people with eating disorders are part of MY GENERATION,
And MY GENERATION has a million dollar industry telling us that we are not good enough,
That we are ugly, lazy, and entitled,
And anything we do to be financially successful,
Or less stressed,
Or beautiful, god dammit,
Is in vain.
So pick up your phone,
Pick your favourite filter,
And take a goddamn selfie.
You deserve it for having to grow up in these times.
My poem, ‘Hashtag Selfie’. (via dingdongyouarewrong)
Reblogged from cyclopette
16
Jun

dragons don’t ever really leave their princesses
(and their princesses never really want them to go)

(Source: floydllawton)

Reblogged from coggirl
2
Jun
godzillahaiku:

2.11
Reblogged from snakewife
8
May

Imagine this:
Wendy Darling becomes a pilot as soon as she comes of age,
because she was always going to find a way to fly,
and night after night sitting by the windowsill never got her anywhere
other than the ground.
When told of her curse, Sleeping Beauty goes in search of a spindle.

Imagine this:
Instead of mounting the land with her feet full of needles, Ariel watches as her lover slides into the ocean with his legs blurring into scales.
One night, Belle finds herself growing a set of fangs and a coat of shaggy fur to match her Beast’s, and finds that she prefers jagged claws to blunt fingernails.

Imagine this:
Susan Pevensie is not shunted from her kingdom
because she learned to use the only weapons she had at hand,
forfeiting her bow and arrow for red-lined lips and slick nylons.
After her feathers bloom like they do every night, Odette goes to find the sorcerer
and plunges her beak into each of his eyes.

Imagine this:
True love’s kiss is sitting quietly in the middle of their priorities.
If they find themselves locked in a castle, they break down the walls.
Give me princesses in tattered chainmail or ripped dresses
or both
or neither.
Give me princesses who ride around, slaying dragons
or mounting them and claiming the sky.

Imagine this:
When they are placed up in a tower and told to wait for their hero,
our princesses take their fate by the guts
slide their thighs around the neck of their thrashing dragon
and take to the stars.

Reblogged from seananmcguire
1
May
love letters from helen of troy

wickedgirlssavingourselves:

you always feared god-born achilles
the most of all your fellows.
his divinity wove him taller,
better, quicker, stronger.

well here’s a secret for you:
my father was a swan,
and the monthly blood on my thighs
is two-parts ichor.

you think achilles was of impressive descent?
touch me one more time.
maybe it’s time we found out
what the daughter of the mightiest god
can do.

look to your kingdoms.
i am coming for them all.

elisabethhewer

Reblogged from seananmcguire
23
Apr

Ten Women I Have Been Warned Against Becoming:

1. The Girl Who Takes Up Too Much Space, always, her shoulders too wide in stairwells, her hips too big in doorways, her voice too loud in classes. This woman does not understand the art of crumbling, of curling herself tight like the spiral of a fern, soft, delicate, unwilling to reach out the ivy of her fingers to grasp onto what should rightfully be hers. This is a beast, an elephant, a moving mountain and she is capable of flattening you, she is capable of ruining you, she is capable of making you feel as small and insignificant in her life as she is supposed to be. You are this woman’s footnote to history, you are her side note in song lyrics, you are constantly interrupted by her with a witty joke you wish you thought of. I asked what the problem was with being a steamroller instead of a sunflower and I was laughed down.

2. The Beautiful One, the long hair or the slim waist or the pretty eyes or the lips like bowstrings. This woman looks good in everything because she’s confident in whatever you put her in. She’ll cut her hair short on you no matter how you like it, she’ll wear high heels and step on your opinions, she’ll look hot as hell no matter what size she is. See, the reason you can’t trust her is because women like this don’t need your permission, they’ll do as they please and get away with it. They’ll say no to you, over and over. Teach your daughters that beautiful means dangerous, teach them to distrust women who love themselves. Equate beautiful with vapid, equate pretty with stupid, take their power from them. Say they’re vain for their makeup, refuse to see them without it. These women are snakes, they are serpents. I said maybe the problem lies with you being unable to control yourself and was told to get off my pedestal.

3. A Bitch. Women are supposed to be ladies in the street but will tear skin under sheets. I’m told: Never raise your voice. Speak gently. Submit. Hold your opinion against your lips and when you admit to it, make sure it comes out as a butterfly wing suggestion. Don’t disagree. Don’t undermine someone else’s authority, regardless of whether or not they deserve your respect. Someone touches you, just move away from them. Don’t hit. Don’t talk back. Be like the ruins of Rome, only beautiful if you can’t hear your quiet death.

4. The Needy One. I have heard how others spit when they talk about how she gave you everything and you shoved it back down her throat until she choked on it, until she came back crawling and asked you what she did, until her palms and knees were scraped for want of just a little affection - never be this woman, I’m told, because she’s a joke and the joke is that she dared to have more emotion than you did. The truth is, I’m told, the one who cares less in a partnership is the one who wins. I didn’t know this was a competition.

5. The Cock Tease, certified stripper, how dare that girl look like that and not want me to sleep with her. Lust is always personified as a lady in red with a dress slit up her thigh. Lust is sinful because it’s power, it’s not asking for attention - it’s demanding it. I’m told she is the worst kind of woman, that looking good is supposed to be some kind of shame on her kin. I’m told not to leave the house in such a short skirt, not with a shirt so low, not with a lace back, not with high heels, not dressed like that. My lipstick can’t be too red, my hair can’t be too mussed, I can’t just “turn someone on like that and then leave them wanting.” I mentioned that instant gratification actually ruins our psyche and was told that being led on was “exhausting.” I said that there was a difference between purposefully tricking someone into liking you and just being attractive or friendly. I was told there’s also a difference between coffee and tea but both result in caffeine. I said, “I’ve been turned on in class by the girls I talk to but I didn’t expect anything from them,” and they said, “It’s different, you’re not a man,” but couldn’t explain where that difference was.

6. A Slut, obviously ruined by another person’s touch. It doesn’t matter how many people she’s actually been with, it’s all about the rumors she carries with her. Easy. Harlot. You’ll still try to get with her, you’ll still take her into your bed and kiss her and say things you don’t mean - but you’ll defame her name when you talk to your buddies. My father used to say “A slut is fine for the night, but the virgin is who you take home and marry.” Maybe he didn’t know he was teaching his daughter to hate her sexuality. Maybe he didn’t know that every time she’d be kissed, her whole system would shake until she felt ready to combust, shame and self-hatred shivering against her spine. Maybe he didn’t know she’d disconnect emotions and sex because he always told her, “Boys are different, they won’t care about you.” Nobody said to her that it was okay to experiment. See, the funny thing is, I’m a dancer so I know exactly where my center of gravity is. I know how hard I’ll fall in each direction. Yet out of fear of getting hurt, I won’t let a single person inside of my bed.

7. The Soulmate. Never love romance more than you love being cynical. Never show weakness, never like pink, never think maybe you might find someone nice and settle down with them. Someone will find you, I was told, And if you’re lucky, he’ll put up with you when you start getting old. Never be the woman who believes in happily ever after, never be dumb enough to think maybe someone could love you after all of your mistakes. It has nothing to do with whether or not a family is important to you and you’re in a good place where a relationship would make your life better - you’re not a princess. You don’t get married, you settle.

8. The Girl With Strength, who can outrun everyone and who is stronger than her boyfriend. “See the thing about boys,” says my daddy, “Is that you have to let them win.” I sat at home and read stories about Artemis and wanted to become the huntress, too. I wanted to howl at the moon, I wanted to slay the beasts that bested me, I wanted to rule my kingdom with bloody fists. But girls are never athletes, never supposed to be “built,” regardless of the fact civilizations were constructed on our spines and we made homes in war by the steel of our ribs. Never be strong. We are supposed to wilt.

9. The Lady CEO: because if you choose work over family, are you really a girl? How dare you fight your way to the top through every pair of eyes that bore through your blouse, through every meeting where you were hushed by the sound of someone else talking, through every time someone called you “sweetie,” how dare you yearn for something. Is your husband the stay-at-home one? I can’t imagine how that is going. He’s not a real man, after all. I don’t give it long before the divorce. How dare you decide you’re happy being single. Don’t you know you’re supposed to bear children. Where is your honor? Where is your wisdom? Who cares if you are the leader, the best suited for your position, the quickest-thinking, the one who makes the hardest clients come back again. Don’t you see? Across history, women have been terrible at success. They always lose their man in the end. (When I said, “I would rather be a famous author than a mediocre mother,” I was told, “No, don’t worry, you’ll be a fine mommy.”)

10. THE GIRL I AM: FIRECRACKER AND DON’T YOU FUCKING FORGET IT I’LL RIP YOU TO SHREDS AND I WON’T FUCKING REGRET IT I’M NOT YOUR PRETTY GIRL I’M NOT YOUR ANYTHING I’M PERFECT, MOTHERFUCKER, AND I’M NOT GOING TO GIVE UP WHAT I’M DOING. I DON’T WANT TO BE “LADYLIKE” THAT LITERALLY MEANS NOTHING I’M NOT GOING TO STOP STANDING UP AND DEMANDING WHAT’S COMING TO ME. I’M GONNA BE SOMEBODY. I’M GONNA MAKE THEM REMEMBER ME. I REFUSE TO BE OVERSHADOWED IN HISTORY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WERE TRYING TO CREATE BUT YOU MADE ME A DRAGON YOU PUT ME IN THE FIRE AND WHEN I STOPPED BURNING I LEARNED HOW TO GLOW DON’T THINK YOU CAN STOP ME YOU CAN’T TAME A TORNADO.

In respectful response to a poem tilted, “Ten men women have warned me against becoming." /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
Reblogged from seananmcguire
13
Apr

This poem was introduced to me by someone at Field Camp II and it’s one of my favorites so I’m forever grateful

I’d love to illustrate it one day…

11
Apr

They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.

They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.

They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
man-hating, devastating,
boogey-woman lesbian.
Not necessarily,
but I like the compliment.

The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.

Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I’m in.

I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.

I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.

I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and success—
I think of me to gluttony.

By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I’m Pancha Villa.

I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I’m la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.

I strike terror among the men.
I can’t be bothered what they think.
Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!
For this, the cross, the Calvary.
In other words, I’m anarchy.

I’m an aim-well,
shoot-sharp,
sharp-tongued,
sharp-thinking,
fast-speaking,
foot-loose,
loose-tongued,
let-loose,
woman-on-the-loose
loose woman.
Beware, honey.

I’m Bitch. Beast. Macha.
Wachale!
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.

Sandra Cisneros (“Loose Woman”)

My credo. (via spic-english)
Reblogged from thethreehares
21
Feb

do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.

you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours
forever.

there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own.

but you will never be
and have never been
“too much.”

"this started as something completely different, but everything comes back to you, doesn’t it?" - tyler ford (via tylerthelatteboy)
Reblogged from burgerthief
9
Feb