Take that ring off your finger and remember what it feels like for your hands to belong to you.
We got brie melting in the oven, and the tea kettle on.
Nadia is draped in a black frock from head to toe and with her index finger swirling in the air
she swivels her hips and says, “Ho’s day are over!”
We once embraced our sexuality through bedfellows, now we are taking it back in order to love ourselves harder.
Our own sweet nothings in terms of lavender oils in long bubble baths.
Our legs move like jellyfish even when we’re dancing sober and alone.
In rising up from the pre-dug graves of our battered hearts
We dust off our dignity and wear it like our favorite leather jackets.
You sir, are temporary-
And we glow so wide without you.
So be Frida without Diego.
Be the bright radiant splotches on canvas that sing together your pain and your ideas.
Place a pin on a map and move yourself to go there, for a day, a week or forever.
We are not messages that go unanswered. We call out to no one in the dark-
Except the night and day. Those things are ours and these days belong to us.