Painting Persephone

when I'm painting Persephone,
I'm painting the souls she tormented
the flowers she grew
and the sunlight in her hair

the goddess of spring
Queen of the Underworld
the bringer of destruction
a force to be reckoned with,
someone to be feared

when I'm painting Persephone,
I imagine
her struggle, watching
her story being
mistold, over and over,
men drawing lines
where they weren't
supposed to be

she was a mighty queen
written as a helpless victim

I'm painting
Despoina and
Kore and
Proserpina, all of
her faces
and phases

like a moon,
she is cold
and unwavering

she'll show you no mercy
and you'll rot
while she throws
flowers on your grave

snippets of her mind [updated]

she thought she could write
poems using snippets of
her mind, but when it all
unraveled

she couldn’t
make sense of it

what was this new
layer, she asked
why does this memory
feel tainted,
spray painted
with regret, thin enough
to see through to what
she used to believe
was true-

she was stunned,
started backtracking, but got
turned around, lost in a forest
of memories and
miscommunication

she was too young then,
but now she has the
instincts, as women do,
to know it wasn't right

she thought she could write
poems using snippets of
her mind, but when it all
unraveled

it was too dark
for her to see anything

What They Tell Us

They tell us that we become women
when we learn the pain of menstruation,
never teaching about the beauty of our bodies.

They comment on our eyes and our thighs,
we soon understand that it's not a compliment;
making sure we know that our physical characteristics
are always being judged, always the first factor.

They say it's inevitable, that we will find a boyfriend,
but plan to punish us when we do.
If we refuse or dare insult the opposite sex,
we get made fun of and at times
flames of something far scarier hide behind the laughter.

They tell us to give men a chance
but also warn against contact,
using our fear as bait
to guide the preachings against sin
deep into our subconscious
so that we can't close our eyes
without being horrified at who we find
staring back.

They remind us every day that
our bodies will never be good enough
then, are surprised to discover that we hate ourselves.

They tell us what "real women" look like
but somehow do not understand
why we cry when we don't fit the bill.

We are not vain,
we are tearing out stitches from years of self-depreciation
that once bound us up, tight, and held us back,
only now learning about our own bodies.

We are taking a stand
with raised voices and raised signs
with self-love and paintbrushes
hoping to keep younger generations
from knowing our pain.

They try to tell us who we are to be,
To that, we say, "No more."

Women are enough. [updated]

The first woman listened to my tears.
The next one showed me how to fold my entire body into a story.
Beside her stood the woman who taught me to be fierce.
Number four showed me just how much I didn't know yet.
Then came the one who never stopped moving; I watched her dance.
The sixth woman made me work hard so that I knew that I could.
Yet another held magic between bristles of her paintbrush.
Number eight told me to scream.
And, I remember the one who made sure that I was heard.
The tenth, oh, they all did this: she told me that I was enough.

We are enough.