slashed across concrete
graffiti on the overpass or
sharp looks in lunchrooms,

twenty now and I still
wilt with shame
when men in cars shout
“hey baby those jeans
would look better on my floor!”

I will have flowers, I will have vines, and they will pour down the walls in riotous green and purple and even blue fuck it, I will have painted pots, I will have twine and wire, enough to tightrope from here to the sun, glowing universe dust, golden magnificent goddess tits, and I will shower the Male Gaze with orchids. I will drown the Gaze in blossoms, bitch,

I will write
across the sky.

I will write
with all the beautiful things that belong to me.

I will raise daughters and teach them to be gardens.


By Brooke Durkan


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