You are ten years old the first time
a man on the street whistles at you and
it makes your skin crawl. Your friend says,
“That’s just how boys pay compliments.
You should be flattered.”

The moon is full that night. Full and hovering
just outside your window. You want to
grab at it. You want to be a part of it.

You are thirteen years old when they
pull you into the office and tell you that you
are breaking dress code — your shorts
are an inch and a half too short.
It is 90 degrees outside and you wear your shame
like a parka for the rest of the day,
and you don’t know why.

The book you’re reading mentions Artemis,
so you google her when you get home and
you read about Actaeon, and how
they tried to tell Artemis she was “asking for it”
and she shot moonbeam arrows into
their throats.

You are seventeen when the boy at the dance
calls you a slut for smacking his hand away
when it tried to climb up your thigh
and pull your prayers out from under your skirt.

The moon hangs like a beacon in your
rearview mirror, a reminder that no matter what
there is always someone rooting for you.
Artemis didn’t owe anyone anything, and darling,
neither do you.

K. Wright, For Artemis. requested by queerasfox

(send me poetry prompts!)

bombing:

dantheman2033:

bombing:

if you’re on the sun then sun dried tomatoes are just tomatoes

Wouldn’t they just be dried tomatoes, because they are still not normal tomatoes

i just googled this and turns out there aren’t any tomatoes on the sun so it looks like we’re both wrong but more importantly you’re wrong