Pearls. Not an introduction on why and who, but in my belly, ruminating like a cow.

I wear my mother’s pearls, my mother’s eyes, her laugh like the sleeveless shirts from her youth, stolen from the back of her closet, over my skin like armor.

I didn't ask because she never showed, went through her clothes in the search for the one I never got to meet. I wonder if we would've been friends. I wonder if she always smelled like my mother.  

There are bridge left to cross for me to ever be able to understand her sacrifice, her attachment, her hunger. Some things offer no bridges are buried under sea, hang on top of unclimbed mountains and some were wiped off this earth for good.

Rage. because I will look bad regardless, to look good is to commodify, I am infiltrated all the way through. But my legs are not shaved after all and girls are no longer humans, but mothers in the making. and mothers have never really mattered as long as they come out of another mother, as long as they bore sons.

 

- Woman and man in a room, they do not know each other - 

 

WOMAN TO MAN:

I demand you to feel what every girl has felt. I demand you to hold onto the shame and guilt of what men like you do to us. 

What are you when those like you whom you protect us from are nolonger, you need your filthy, ugly, despicable men to carry the medal of not being one. Hold some weight of the fear when they stick their filthy fingers out to touch our sacred bodies, when men that could be your father, your brother, your best friend touch us, harass us and kill us, cover our mouths, rip our dress make us less.  

Why do I need to be gentle and calm in my rage whilst you scream and shout and hurt everyone around you. 

Does it disgust you as much as it scares us? 

oh what a good man you are for doing something a women is expected/a man doesn't have to do.

MAN: Well, I for one have never touched a woman unless she wanted me to, but many women-

-Scene cuts off-

I wear my mother's pearls, her eyes, her gentle fierce eyes. I wonder if she sees me a woman or a daughter. 

My body is conflicted to what it is built to do with real food and all the disgusting thoughts it gets fed. they go through many stages of digestion, it seems I have to stomach more then I can eat. Lay in fetus position ready for her to stroke my hair. I cannot stomach what I think, I have food poisoning. from the food I was told to cook. she told me this exact recipe, why is it killing me?