I want to crawl out of my skin prison/back into my mothers womb/ beg her to birth me again/ press restart on the TV show that is my life and pick a different character/ my past is a pair of jeans that don’t fit anymore without hurting myself to get into them/ there is too much history stuck between the cracks that make me up/ not enough water here to paint me pretty/ I cannot think/ I cannot breathe/ I cannot exist without the contradictory perceptions of men drowning my own out
John Berger said,
“Men look at themselves.
Women watch themselves
being looked at.”
My autonomy, glass half full
or half empty
depending on which man
is deciding that day
“Womanhood”
an amalgamation of ideas
passed down
throughout the ages
forced down my throat
only to be punished
when they are not regurgitated as expected.
I can smell rebellion on my fingertips
my chest swells at the taste of ashes
constantly consuming my destruction
as fuel for my rebirth
there is rubble in my liver
internalized misogyny in my ribs
overthinking in my feet
I can’t sit still with myself
self actualization is a fickle game
I always seem to lose
Gender binary
Patriarchy
Male Oppression
they keep coming in first place
But my bloody knuckles and I just want to dance
without being aware of what we look like to everyone in this
room from every direction
My awareness is a protective boyfriend
Who traps me inside myself
He follows me to the shower,
the grocery store, to work, to bed
He is always in bed with me
I practice reclaiming my body every way I know how
only to find everything near me withers at the sight of me
Sometimes when I try to touch myself
I become a question mark instead of a body
Unsolicited opinions instead of a soul
But I am not afraid of filing through dirt
to find my way back home to myself
Patriarchy is a maze I am always getting lost in
but the taste of my authenticity always reminds me
who I am beneath the conditioning
It is dizzying to feel so helpless
and powerful in the same breath
Pleasure is home. Pleasure is not painting yourself pretty it is
painting while screaming, rolling around in the mud
panting
breathless
and shaking
Pleasure is honey thick
belly laughter
that moves like snake
A river, with currents strong
like grief stricken mothers, an ocean with tides
built on the tears of children who grew up in angry homes
My pleasure
the most beautiful blessing I have ever held in
the palms of my two hands
My pleasure,
La Petite Morte
a chance to be born again
from the soft ashes of self induced
momentary orgasmic death
Anahita Monfared (she/they) is a queer and Iranian Vancouver based actress, dancer and poet! Her poetry explores mental illness, sexual assault/violence, masturbation, healing (and more) through an unapologetic feminist lens.
Featured art by Rue Mader