Feminist Poems

The Sculptor (V1)

Squeeze me.

Squeeze my throat, I am wet clay in your hands. 

Squeeze me until I am how you want me to be.

Leave me there until I dry and I am how you want me to be forever.

We have hardened to fit your standards since the beginning of time, and I will not let you sculpt us anymore.

I will crush your clay creations of us and I will grind them until they are the finest powders you can think of.

I will add water and I will sculpt until the world is how it was always supposed to be.

I do not wish for a Matriarchy.

I wish for equal.

I wish to hold the same cash that you hold.

I wish to sit in the same **** chair that you sit in.

I wish, for once, I could be the sculptor.