Chantel Elizabeth

A very important thread. Another damning example of white men ripping off work by QTPOC. I will be joining the boycott of this film that has appropriated the work of Reina Gossett, and you should too. Fuck David France and fuck Netflix for literally stealing and profiting off Reina Gossett’s work.

Wednesday is International Day of the Girl!

Every girl has the right to choose and shape her own future. 

Investing in girls helps them build better lives and create a more peaceful and prosperous world for ALL.

Reblog if you agree.

@jimettarose

A heap of whites over the back of the door hang clear away from how the day has gone, cinnamon mud streaking across jeans, blood spurting out of the hand steadying the branch, and raspberries. I was inside crossing off the night, hunting for what to say, twenty years later still breaking lines to go around talking about this, and saw a ghost in the clean kitchen window, the foggy layer of me that you know. You could crash right through it and not see, and you do, brutish good soul, whose bare minimum is still ceremony, whose mistakes never count. But then there’s no resentment in this town, I learned that like a language, like clipped vowels sounding out belonging. You’re  the angel I know best. Unconditional means time-blind too. You understand a little, don’t count sun spots or where the blonde strands comes in when they do. That all would slow you down.  They talked tonight of your speed and it’s mine too, I’m a second, less understood moon. You take love as it comes and not lust when it goes, just dig inside your wind-battered little home, to the part of your self that lies elbow-deep. But let’s have an event, not to seek attention but to see what’s left of us when a threat is over, the trees that still stand. If we could just let ourselves try the ice and fall through. If you could just see  how I flail.

By Chani The Hippie

I can’t write a poem about you without crying.

I keep trying, but I keep feeling your hands on another woman.

I want to write about my heartache, but my mind keeps replaying what you probably are saying to her right now.

Every time I write a word down, I think about how you must make her feel.

I wonder if you love her.

I wonder if you loved the others.

I wonder how many there really were.

I know it wasn’t just one.

Or two.

Or three.

Every time I want to write a poem about you I can’t help but wonder why you were so comfortable laying next to me as you thought about someone else.

The words on my heart are distracted by the thoughts of my mind.

How many times did I never cross your mind?

How many times did you turn your phone on silent?

How many times did you take your ring off?

How many times did you lie?

Did you ever wish you would stop making me cry?

I want to write a poem to make me feel better, but all I can think about is how I was never enough you.

The tears in my eyes hold the poem that my pen cannot write.

The poem that tells you how much you damage you did, and how I will survive it all.

The tears in my eyes hold the poem that wishes it didn’t still love you.

The poem that wishes you would have just loved me the same way I loved you.

Adrienne C. Moore from OITNB has some inspiring words about the power of media and TV shows to change the world.

Me performing my poem “Bad Bitch” tonight.