Poetry
The Unholy Feminine
by E.M. Lark
by E.M. Lark
(Content Warning: gender dysphoria)
i.
“She” should be light.
It sounds light after all, the ring of my mother’s laughter
Offbeat grandfather chimes in the foyer
A tender whisper between lovers’ lips--
“She.”
She was brighter than Apollo’s sweet sun
Louder than any school bell
Bigger than life itself
And that wouldn’t do.
No that simply would not do--
Who was I — who was she — if she was not divinely made for someone else’s use?
I remember the first time someone bit my lip too hard
And they started to draw blood.
I could taste their venom,
sweeter than the tears they made me shed
And lovers’ promises stitch into my skin--
“She.”
ii.
The devastation became her.
It shut out the sun and made way for storms
To wear her out and leave her to rust--
My body was suddenly not enough
For anyone, or anything,
If I was not feigning divinity:
“Weaponize your big brown eyes,
Lashes out like daggers,
Paint your face with the ashes
Of those who have deemed you unworthy.
You are beautiful
she
As long as
she
You do
she
What we say.”
iii.
I sat at the altar and prayed for all of this to change
My voice cried and cracked at the high note
And not a sound was heard
What it means to live this way
Is to never live for yourself--
Product for the masses, holy order of insecurity,
We pray to you for assured destruction.
Is this what Aphrodite would have wanted for me?
Beauty’s beholder has a cruel sense of humor
And I find myself wanting to go blind
There is no place left for me here--
So I lock the doors behind me and seal it with a sanguine kiss.
iv (epilogue).
Years will go by and people will only hear whispers
The calls and pleas for their beloved girl long gone
The church doors will always be open for her
But she will refuse to enter
And all of her friends
All of her family
And lovers will say, “She?
She’s not around much anymore.”
“She” should be light.
It sounds light after all, the ring of my mother’s laughter
Offbeat grandfather chimes in the foyer
A tender whisper between lovers’ lips--
“She.”
She was brighter than Apollo’s sweet sun
Louder than any school bell
Bigger than life itself
And that wouldn’t do.
No that simply would not do--
Who was I — who was she — if she was not divinely made for someone else’s use?
I remember the first time someone bit my lip too hard
And they started to draw blood.
I could taste their venom,
sweeter than the tears they made me shed
And lovers’ promises stitch into my skin--
“She.”
ii.
The devastation became her.
It shut out the sun and made way for storms
To wear her out and leave her to rust--
My body was suddenly not enough
For anyone, or anything,
If I was not feigning divinity:
“Weaponize your big brown eyes,
Lashes out like daggers,
Paint your face with the ashes
Of those who have deemed you unworthy.
You are beautiful
she
As long as
she
You do
she
What we say.”
iii.
I sat at the altar and prayed for all of this to change
My voice cried and cracked at the high note
And not a sound was heard
What it means to live this way
Is to never live for yourself--
Product for the masses, holy order of insecurity,
We pray to you for assured destruction.
Is this what Aphrodite would have wanted for me?
Beauty’s beholder has a cruel sense of humor
And I find myself wanting to go blind
There is no place left for me here--
So I lock the doors behind me and seal it with a sanguine kiss.
iv (epilogue).
Years will go by and people will only hear whispers
The calls and pleas for their beloved girl long gone
The church doors will always be open for her
But she will refuse to enter
And all of her friends
All of her family
And lovers will say, “She?
She’s not around much anymore.”
About the Author:
E.M. Lark (they/them) is a queer writer/reader & reviewer/occasional poet currently based in NYC. Their background in theater both informs their body of work and overtly influences their ridiculous habits. Reviews found in Defunkt Magazine, words found in Roi Fainéant Press, oranges journal; others forthcoming. Twitter: @thelarkcalls, for regular shenanigans.
