I am a woman and I am composed of wings. I am the open wound, never not bleeding. My body is field and meadow and valley, all the dips and shifts of womanhood. All the ways I’ve managed to land on my feet. Palms open. Metaphorical and all these fault lines. Abstract art. The best line in the poem, but never the full piece. I am a woman and I am dissected into useful bits and pieces. Scraped and scarred, and still on my feet. In the midst of the revolution. Blood between my legs. Blood in my mouth from a bitten tongue. Blood as my war paint. I am a woman and I am living proof of fairy tales. Of witchcraft. I am magic and light and clawing my way out of this tower. I am conjuring fire between my hands. I am slaying my own dragon. I am both a princess and a sword. You will name kingdoms after me, and I will name ruins after you. I am a woman and I am still on my feet. This is my greatest act of rebellion.
ROCK, PAPER, GIRL, angelea l. (via wildfairy)















