for every plath and sexton,
woodman and woolf,
there's a girl like me writing white.
not for lack of trying.
but because her mother never warned her
what it was like
once the breasts and thighs in hungry hands
replaced her pens, her lens
and her tongue became the shutter
to her emulsion-coated throat.
I have always appreciated the dark interiors of tragic caucasian female artists: Sylvia Plath, Francesca Woodman, etc, even though it wasn't "for me". Simultaneously, growing into womanhood, for me, has been through radical love and acceptance of my sensuality and body, which kind of lifted me up and away from this identification into something that actually fits.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.