I love that our bodies

work in harmony with the moon.

Maybe she feels our loneliness too.

Her tides tug and pull

our blood.

The earth is rich with our blood.


We have been dreamers, thinkers,

mothers, friends.

Explorers, believers, anarchists.

We have fought wars,

and started them.

Some of us have held life

in our bellies.

Our wombs have been pawns

in their political game.

Our hair, ankles, knees,

their distractions.

We have feasted on the cries

of men, their cruel words

our fuel.


And it’s true,

some of us are beaten

and broken,

some have died for being born

a woman,

but I’d rather our story

be one of survival,

a story against all odds,

one of phoenixes

shaking ashes from their wings,

of three billion sticks strong

held together by a single struggle,

of compassion that throbs

in our veins,

of healing and knowing that we

are all sisters of the moon.


I’d rather that

than a story of monsters.

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