Somehow I’ve never felt like I was good enough. Good enough to be loved. Pretty enough. Not too fat. Just enough as I was, with no condition to it.
Writing words that are never beautiful enough, never truthful enough, never loving enough... But these words hold a desperate hope that you will read them.
This is an invitation to write your own poem -- about your body, your experience with #MeToo, whatever would feed your wild soul.
Anansi and the Maroon and indigenous dwellers of the jungle had indirectly taught me that my 'primitive brain' and instinctual self, contrary to popular Western belief, were not ruled by fear and existential angst.
But whenever I tried to discuss my concerns with him, it was never the right time. It was too early in the morning or too late at night, he was too busy with work, or he hadn’t slept well the night before and was too tired. When I finally forced the conversation and demanded to be treated ...