Tonight, I snuck out
And I’m howling at the moon
I am hollering asphalted bloody
For all the women whose weight drags heavy on their hearts
Whose bodies are not theirs
Whose minds are nowhere near
For all the women who, tonight, are curled up in bed
Fetal position paralyzed,
Cradling wounds like newborn babies
We are everywhere
But we are nowhere to be found.
Cry for us.
For all the times our lovers’ hands feel like cattle prods
And us the cured-beef aftermath
Of someone else’s slaughter
For all the blank stares and empty eyes
Numb mouths and hollow tongues
The shoulders hunched and
To stand against the world.
We are everywhere.
Some nights we are splayed out flat
Flayed into ribbons
Cut and dried into bite-sized bits.
Some nights all we can do is steel-wool the counters
And swear never to give birth.
Some nights we can’t ignore the leprosy
Root it out with plastic forks that snap off at the handle -
In the bathroom
So as not to cause a scene.
For us, a red sash will always mean blood
And with time comes only distance, not relief
For us, Chanel will never overpower the scent of sin
And the aroma of violence sits heavy in our throats
For us, grief will always taste like iron.
It’s not every month –
Not on the dot –
Not when we’ve bought so many happy mornings after
The pharmacist knows us by name.
We no longer wear white pants.
We can no longer sleep alone.
We ask the circles under each others’ eyes:
What would you –
What could you –
What could I
Where did I go wrong?
Vivian Underhill lives in the mountains of Colorado and spends most of her time outside. She’s had words knocking about in her head since she can remember, and being an introvert, the written word has always been her favorite mode of communication. She loves snow, dark coffee, and feminism. vivianunderhill.wordpress.com