girl, come undone
the first draft of womanhood.
a note from the author’s present self:
sardonic tones, sardonic tones, projections onto women.
there exists an almost negligible delay between sense and synapse. the future-present enmeshment. dwell too much on the past, and you rob both your current and future selves simultaneously. reality is derealised. the real, surreal. overthinking the future becomes redundant when your body is already living in it. and as i mentioned before, the pain dissipates—it always does.
i don’t ever wish to be someone’s source of comparison nor their insecurities when i’ve lived with so many of mine in the past. you are your own company for the rest of your earthly life; make it count.
and with that, i present to you some old excerpts from my rough draft[previous perceptions] of womanhood:
11.03.2023
journal entry:
in order to be worldly, i am flayed open. i ponder upon what it must be like to not be so vulnerably exposed to its inner workings. what is there left for anyone left to see? except in the irony of an unreliable narrator, narrating their own life? is it for a fruitful cause? to prod & poke poke & prod at the skin laid bare right in front of them? when a single breath of air blown to the back of the neck, singes the hair there? a flower’s stem is forthcoming of to the forceps sloppily tearing at tendons[;] internal bleeding morphs to show reveal external scrapes[,] and no tethers remain attached when i inquire you about the tender optimism rendered transient global amnesia. so rarely do moments of clarity manage to grasp at me with short[-]lived, manicured hands[—]for i flit in and out of the scenery like that of a hummingbird’s thrumming heart much like a hummingbird’s heart does thrum. what nectar do you seek? what is there to be envious of envy lies for a woman not ever-present? in layman’s terms, there is no miracle, only a withered frayed mind.
25.04.2024
escapril prompt: “dark secret”
ten dark secret(s) :
i. i shed scales every time i seat myself on sand dunes.
ii. my chest cavity has a filling.
iii. (it's an event horizon.)
iv. (it's my heart.)
v. i break each of my teeth on every forged iron sword i encounter.
vi. i didn't know thorns themselves could be pricked until he held my face between his hands.
vii. i gorge on your hurt.
viii. i like it when you scream at me until your throat is hoarse (but i just sit there with a blank stare).
ix. women find most expeditions in life dull and for the mundane if they have been groomed to do so long enough.
and
x. this poem is mediocre.
01.04.2024
escapril prompt: “changes of state”
a liquid doesn’t know it’s a liquid,
when its loosely packed molecules,
are fumbling for a purpose,
formless hands outreached—
find no greater vibrations.
i look out my window,
a girl of 12 is perched under
the kaleidoscopic maple tree,
grazed knees, bronzed skin and crooked nose.
ashes to ashes,
an eye for an eye.
she wishes to know a solid,
tightly packed,
where its molecules dance in fixed places,
but the convection currents won’t allow it.
i gaze at the sky and it breaks my heart.
soul for soul,
fly high.
am i 22 now?
yes.
a decade has slipped away?
yes.
08.03.2025
international women’s day
Waxy, thorn-embedded wings, bruised hands—
does femininity always mean submission?
Was Icarus at fault for flying a little too close,
when women only bow down to the sun?
as a sleep-deprived student running this reader-supported publication with what little free time i have, i rely on your support. so if you enjoy my work, feel free to buy me a coffee <3
i am in love with the way you write
Well, fuck me. I love this.