Jenny Carrington’s Womanifesto
I am woman.
An occasionally lazy eye, a thrice-kicked (or-more-kicked) bump of a nose,
frizzy hair that won’t lie limp, two crooked teeth, and
practically no fingernails:
this is the woman I have become
(addicted to coffee and crazy to boot).
Words fill my head and make up the world around me,
painting pictures bursting with vibrant colors of angst,
hate, sex, crime, war, love, attachment, fantasies, puppies
and chocolate and all that jazz; it’s like a color-by-number book:
the words you speak have as much color as you give them.
I am a woman who lives in the modern times of muddled history
that pretends to remember the ancient stories of some spiritual men
that feared all struggles for power and wore glasses, so they must have
known what they were talking about, inherently giving more power to
Adam than Eve.
I am a woman who is told she shouldn’t walk alone at night.
I am a woman who cannot go a day without hearing “she’s such a whore-bitch-cunt-face” being said in some corner of the room about some girl who did something that one night that one weekend.
I am a woman who wishes for peace on Earth in the most literal sense of all:
a woman should love her fellow woman,
and look in the mirror and say,
“I am woman!”
each and every day; a woman should spit in the face of the man that
tortures her soul but kiss the face of the man that understands it.
My face is unique, my imperfections my own, the words I see my own,
but if you are woman and I am woman then
we are women
together.
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