There’s a story I’m writing,
about the pitfalls of being female,
the dangers,
the darkness,
the struggle for clear vision
amongst stereotypes.
In it, the protagonist nearly falls prey
to a past stalker,
someone who wants to take from another,
someone who is not all darkness
but who is certainly lacking light.
His cryptic puzzles are laid bare with time:
his hatred can’t gather here,
in the cracks of femininity,
in a version of a woman unattainable.
What is he trying to capture,
I ponder,
through another body in the night?
What is he trying to make for himself,
I wonder,
through manipulations previously unseen?
And then, I think,
of what role gender plays here.
Here, where femininity is stripped bare.
Where lipstick and razors
leave my weekly routine,
where a chosen tribe never questions
their gender before running a property,
where fem is not a swear word,
but a measurement of empowerment.
We live amongst the red dirt,
it took scorched earth to bring us here.
The symbolism of destruction before new life can grow,
as if, in the desert,
we can breakdown fears and misfortunes,
destroy layers of perplexity and
place humanity above banal vanity.
There’s a turning,
between a story told and understood by many
and the glorification of a new phase –
It’s a new female affliction:
women of the desert,
strong as a collective and empowered
through each other’s journey.
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