your voice shivers through
me like breezes shaking
time-worn boughs
(and I cannot
resist that
ancient call)
slide your whispers
along skin, let them
sink deep as bone
breathe my name,
a fervent, sighing
psalm
and I will lift my
face to your sun and
unfurl my limbs
singing like new leaves
dancing in the
warm winds
of spring
Bullshit myths about feminism. by ElsaKroese, journal
Bullshit myths about feminism.
I know, I know. Going all ideological on you guys is a little a-typical for me, and perhaps (I hope) I'm preaching to the choir. But I've been noticing a lot of negativeness around the word and (more importantly) the ideology of feminism, and a lot of that seems to be based on misinformation or misunderstanding. This might not be the best place to fix any of that, but I felt like chipping in anyway. It beats doing nothing, right?
So, here's some of my "favorite" bullshit myths:
Bullshit Myth: Feminists think girls are better than guys.
Feminism isn't Misandry! Feminists don't hate guys, or think women are better than guys. In fact, that id
a strange fellow
bestowed his slow strut
upon the side-walk
catercorner from
my car.
(I watched as if
the light
would never
change.)
one hand-to-
mouth
the other flailed
as if conducting
the wild orchestra
that was his own
wandering
eyes.
he was just-more-
than walking in place
as the sun kicked
pretty silver
from the wet-
prerequisite of
a spit-
shined chin.
(the horns
of those behind me
had begun to
sound.)
this man did not
know the world
that imprisoned me
NO!
he existed
the w
Kayaking at 7am on Blackridge by greenleo94, literature
Literature
Kayaking at 7am on Blackridge
raindrops crack
the glass of the lake
startling silver
and scarlet fish
gone in a blink
against the sediment
and grasping
lakeweed
the sweep
of my paddle
cleaves ripples
against the
mermaid green
waters
enticing richness
as the restless-dog
wind bites
the heels of the storm
and the sun
shoulders past
the lake
gleamed
like the sky
she undressed him-
crept up beneath his shirt as a loft breeze
and allowed the wind to swallow their unnecessary layers
letting her fingers be wary she grazed his marble slab skin
pirouetted atop his collarbones
threw her full self into a tour jeté,
floating along his abdomen
and landed atop his belt buckle.
silently she slipped her palms
(eager with sweat)
beneath his jeans
and nested her head at his chest
to find his pulse thrumming,
parallel to hers.
her hunger began insisting through the pores of her skin,
flooding out in an attempt to feed.
she glanced at him, beneath him, onto him and into him.
her eyes submerged in hi