by Danielle Leshgold
Illustrated by Brooke Ripley
Some days All I see is men That see with their hands. Men that think their hands Are engines. And other days, I can see us. Us, Shapeshifting women, That used to live in our whispers And in our running. Hear this? The sound of our feet doing their job. We used to catch their vulgar words and put them in our pocket. You know the words, The ones on the back of the neck, The ones that birth beads of sweat. But I can see us, Taking their words out of our pockets, Using their words against them. And now, We must stop Being afraid Of the sound of our own voices. If their hands are engines, Then ours are steering wheels. I wish I could mummify a moment. Or a movement. I wish I could capture that feeling. The flames that billow through the walls of our stomachs. Watch us Contort shame Into strength. I can see us screaming out loud, I can see us used to loving the words in our mouths. I wish I could savor this feeling that though we’ve been scared, Though we’ve been ashamed We have not been alone in any way.