signed, v. river

Oh to be but a bumble bee, sitting on a flower and collecting pollen in the garden of a cottage where bread is cooling in the kitchen and Stevie Nicks is playing on vinyl.

I am a woman. A female. A haver of two X chromosomes. I am confident but not too confident. Confidence isn’t sexy or appealing, I need to have the  slightest dent to my self esteem so a man can come along and validate my appearance and existence. I am  independent but I can’t say that  because I need to rely on a man. I am single but I need to get married and have children because it is my  duty. A childless woman is cold and bitter. I am sexy, but not too sexy. I can’t be a tease, leave things to  the imagination but don’t be a prude. Men don’t like women who are stuck up about their body. I am a fighter but I wasn’t strong enough. My voice had shrank and I left missing my pride.  I was asking for it, my clothing too revealing. How could men keep their hands off me? I am a girl in a woman’s body in a man’s world. 

In the car, she sits back, staring out of the window

This is my story of a girl. She was young. Hair a wild dance of red and copper. When the sun filtered through it, at just the right moment, I swear I saw the rays dance too.

I find that as the world opens again, my loneliness returns. Surrounded by the joyous racket of family and friends and even strangers, I feel an odd sense of familiarity. Like I’m staring at life through a picture frame. At first, I thought everyone was in the picture but, as I’ve lived and I’ve grown and felt, I came to realize that I was the one in the picture; forever stuck in a moment of time while the world moves around me. Even though I never posed, its camera came upon me from behind and captured me.