Midas’ Daughter, Liberty’s Sister: How I No Longer Care.


Must I always feel at war with men? Aching to prove I am just as strong as them, just as smart, even to the face of my own father?

I wonder why I no longer care if I have a husband. At what point did I realize men were the hurdle in my track, a hindrance reminding me of things they make me think I lack? I only need to be good enough for one person, and that is me. I may have two lungs, but they only breathe for me. It’s exhausting letting everyone else be what I gulp down.

Do you realize lately how important it is to pay attention to everything you are consuming? Which are the moments where you consume the lie? You can feel it like a sickness when you inhale what wasn’t yours to begin with. Then you finally see past the hurdle to the finish line. Do you remember how easy it was to jump off the swing, and for a moment believe you were flying?

How dare you think that the landing was much too painful every time to ever attempt it again? After the shock wave through your instep, the earth moved. It reverberated because of you. You are earth-shattering. You long for fireworks and you are calmed by the lightning, even if you fear the splitting it could inflict on the bark, the fire it could set to the tree.

How everything turns to ash anyway — everything except this dream. You were a child who believed at every midnight on All Hallows’ Eve that magic would be bestowed upon you. Do you think the ancestors didn’t bless you? Look what becomes of the canvas, look what’s made sacred by your pen. Pity the fool who was loved by you and left you.

How dare you lose faith that the owl would not devour you, then deliver you as pellet in its claw? Reborn is the woman who buries helicopter seeds for the winged folk, who opens the darkness’s jaw. She who saw a black hole filled it with the moon and birthed all the stars like teeth bloodied from the mauling.

Remember when I told you I was a beast? How I shed my pelt for wings? I do not forget the snapping bones that brought me here.

I do not forget who I am living for. The sky is for me to rip open. The horizon is for me to burn. I do not have to breathe for them.

I do not have to consume the weary filth of men and call it life.


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Alise Versella
Alise Versella is a poet living at the Jersey Shore. She has published three volumes of poetry which can be found at her website, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon. Her work has been featured on Elephant Journal, Women's Spiritual Poetry blog, ultraviolettribe.com, The Tattooed Buddha, and of course here. She considers herself a coffee enthusiast and self-proclaimed dessert whore, who believes with every fiber of her being that poetry, beautiful poetry, can come from the ugliest of pain. Poetry can be the salve for all the broken parts, and it can make us whole.
Alise Versella
Alise Versella