tangled

I read the words of men, rough. Calloused, bitter, simple, and still beautiful. Words heaved up from the gut, short and powerful. The cover is the same. Rough paper, with deep brown and yellow and rust on its cover.

I heave words from my own gut, but they are long and tangled with pieces of others.

I run my fingers through messes of hair never brushed, straighten my bra, rub the mascara out from under my eyes, trip over books on the floor, look down at unshaven legs, and clamber onto a bicycle.

I am not neat, there is nothing elegant or graceful in my movements. I stutter out the words heaved and smear them when they are too soft. I am not all soft. But I am still a woman and where does my stumbling around meet this womanhood I ought to grasp.

I drink beer, though very slowly. And smoke cigarettes, quickly. I wear dresses but my ankles and shins are covered with bruises, evidence of my lack of grace. Is that disgrace?

But please let me mother the world, hold hearts and make breakfast. Brew tea and write the soft stories of the world, though few they are. Let me cry when the world aches and when stories are beautiful. Grieve when birds die and friendships wither. I am strong, but let me break. And maybe, be held by someone stronger. By a man who is rough in the right places and more warm than bitter.

I'm tripping over shortcomings and stuttering out my inadequacies, looking desperately for my dignity and grace, lost some where when my hands became rough and my fire grew hotter. But I am a woman and my words can be long and tangled, like my story, like my hair.