my vagina monologue

I want to stay home.
In a way hidden and still not quite safe.
But where the sense of safety is just enough to help me fall asleep.

Truth is – I am tired.
I am tired of the silent tension in my body keeping vigilant in the dark alleys of the city running through my veins. A tension I am supposedly used to and yet tonight I want to be where I can breathe a little deeper – a little slower.

I would like to fill both my ears with music and drown in the emotions that flow from it. I do not want to have one ear keep on alert… just in case.
I don’t want to worry about the alcohol I consume in my neighborhood in the bars I deemed safe and yet having it somehow misunderstood.

I guess I am tired – of the constant ways of womanhood.
Every dream destination mixed with gentle waves of fear of what may happen if I were to be alone. Desiring the false sense of safety from being with a man – who hold the power to alter my breathing from ease to gasping in the blink of an eye.

I seek stability and shelter in a place truly safe.
I seek a time where I can break down and let the pain pour without judgment or responsibilities. All seems too much to ask. Too much to attain.

So I wrap my arms around the small frame of my body.
I caress it with whispers and chants of words it deserves to hear.
That I am great.
That I am strong.
That it is okay to be simultaneously so fragile.
That ultimately I am enough.
And that I am loved – most importantly by the two arms holding it close.

So excuse my weary smiles that drop the moment your back is turned.
Excuse my early exits and goodbyes.
I want to be home.
Somewhere hidden and yet not quite truly safe.

Women

We women we start out as a creature of pure innocence, dressed in tutus shimmering with high pitch laughter. Then we shed our layers of innocence one by one and morph into creatures of desire, possessing the power that comes from the boundaries of youth and maturity.During this time commonly described as a woman’s prime, most of us get caught up in sustaining this phase and forget to see the beauty that lies in ages 30 and beyond.

But you see I just saw a mother with her daughter sitting across from me, her daughter was painting  her mothers face with penny siZe kisses giggling out of such splendid joy. The woman, who was once a desire of men, her attire was not one designed to impress and on her neck hung a tattered purse. 

As a child we need not do much to receive love and attention. As an adolescent we begin to realize social expectations we need to fulfill to be loved. As a woman we feel love eludes us – all the fairy tales a practical joke played on naive children. As a mother we seem to disappear into the background.

May a woman’s love be sweet and tender when she is a child. May her love be passionate and great in her early adulthood. May her love be everlasting and true thereafter….

I hope my man will love me when I become a mother.
For I am still a woman inside. 
For I am more a woman than ever before.