entry 13

girlhood. exiled to the lonesome feeling of uncomfortability.

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hello sweet lovers,

girlhood is a melancholic, existential, perpetual cycle. to be a woman is to be too much and not enough, no matter the way in which you are painted. no matter the way in which you are pained. girlhood is a life sentence; a promise kept from birth.

as a young girl, i adored my older sister and mother. i wore their sweaters from three winters ago as they brushed my hair and whispered in my ear: “beauty is pain.” i listened to their music, and ached for love to hurt me that way. i watched as they painted their nails in blood red and their eyes in jet black. i ate as they cut fruit and served me first. i cried when they felt pain, i screamed when they were angry. i was too naive to think the weight of their womanness would be my final hand-me-down. i know better at twenty-three.

my inheritance; a body of rage, a bleeding heart, and stained glass eyes.

to my fellow women, woman-presenting persons, and those who resonate—this is a short love letter i wrote for you.

love, laney

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i feel exiled to a lonesome feeling of uncomfortability.

*

i want to sit in a sundress on a perfectly normal day,

and not worry about anyone noticing, too much,

my sundress.

the way i do not notice, too much,

the other people in sundresses

on perfectly normal days.

i desire to dance,

without ruminating over the reflection in the

bedroom mirror,

where even then i am embarrassed

by my lack of rhythm. 

i want to scream louder than my ladylike

rage allows me,

for her temper trickles down my cheeks

and sings in the soft melody of my whimpers—

digestible to Man. 

i dream of jumping between the rooftops

that become this city,

and holding hands with my girl friends as

we run faster than we can feel our feet, 

and for so long we forget they’re

even there to hold us.

no longer attached to the ground or our thoughts,

just ourselves and each other.

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(photo: Ester captures a firework, the color of red and pink’s matrimony, exploding outside of my sunroof. my head peeks enough from the bottom of the photo to display laughing eyes. two love letters written on yellow pages embrace one another, folded into the driver’s sun visor. the night begins in this photo, three women embarking on an adventure, seeking the thrill of young womanhood. the blur of this moment encapsulated in Ester’s shaking hands that capture it.)

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