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heroica
I Write BY SA LO M É E LO U
Amanda was wearing the sun on her face today I wanted to ask her: how? How do you do it? I didn’t say anything. I just walked back home. I walked through the park There was a memorial for Sabina and Sarah and all the others. Another woman was there, she was writing something down on a piece of paper something like ‘Educate your sons’ or ‘Say her name’ she looked up at me and smiled I smiled back. Not a happy kinda smile a this-is-a-shitty-world-we-live-in kinda smile all I wanted to do was scream, loudly. But I didn’t. I just walked back home.
I turned on my laptop. The deadline is in twenty-four hours. I have twenty-four hours to write about my love for words and literature and women. I have twenty-four hours to show you, I am worthy of being published, and that if I don’t I am still enough. I am enough. It was never about being published or stepping foot on stage It was never about wearing my skin inside out It’s always been about survival. I write because I feel so fucking insecure and heavy all the time. I write for Aileen and all the other women killed by the patriarchy. How long would it take to name them all? They deserve a fucking poem. They deserve an entire anthology.
