The mythology behind being female

The Mythology behind being female:

Emily Sturgill

Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Mythology behind being female:

We are taught from the time

we are very little that what matters most

is how you look on the outside

not how you really feel.

Are you pretty enough?

No, well then we have lots of stuff

let’s add some eyeliner, lipstick and a bit of blush.

Do not dress like a tomboy or wear your sweatpants

outside the house.

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust

because it’s the outside the matters most

it’s the pastel shingles on your exterior house

do not show them your true colors

don’t display fear like a mouse

don’t throw tantrums like children do

it’s unbecoming beneath the beauty

of you.

The Mythology behind being female:

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust.

The mythology of being female

suggests a magical facade, and a white picket fence.

Girls should never get angry, defensive or dirty.

Girls should always play nice.

But sometimes the wildness in me

unleashes a feminist and I feel

like my exterior has cracks, my mascara runs, I get angry

I cry easily, I put on those ugly sweatpants

and I refuse to act lady like.

I embrace all my curves, the ones I was “taught”

are called ugly or fat.

The Mythology behind being female:

Sometimes despite the Mythology of being Female

I get annoyed, I get outraged, and I fight back.

against all the stereotypes that say

I should always put others first.

I should always play nice.

I should look pretty

and put a smile of my face.

because sometimes even when

I am trying to blend in

even when I am attempting to be

the ideal perfect version of me?

sometimes I just do not care at all.


Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust, then what comes next?

Nobody likes hanging out with a hurricane.

Nobody enjoys an un-lady like version

of crass, profane, selfish, uncompassionate

messy looking, emotional lunacy

a loud version of profanity

and ultimately a vulgar shadow

of a hysterical woman

this collides with the Mythology of being



Stuck on the serene

I’m stuck on the serene.
I am a fly caught by the sky of stars,
onto your cars dashboard’s glass-
smashing fast
beneath windshield wipers cast of silver.

the past is a postcard memory.
a momentary glismpe over my shoulder,
and a 35 cent postage stamp.

there is so much love here.
it covers me, endlessly.
until i breakout like an allergy.
feeling the rash of never belonging/nor…
being worthy of all the love
he sends to me.

I’m a broken down rabbit earred TV screen.
stuck on static and white noise.
i am broken into too many
ancient places
to be fixed by your hi-fi definations.

I am the broken down pay-phone,
in the mental ward which only takes
quaters, and everybody is fresh out,
sadly giving me longing looks of too much pain.

I am the peeling paint job
on the oldest wooden house
abandoned ob our block
windows nailed shut
front door busted into
filled with the evils of crime, rodents of luck and opportunistic stray cats.

I am the fever which makes you sweat.
my heat intensifies
under a heating blanket, some fiction
and a bodybag of a corpse filled to the brim:
with lies.

Obsessive Personality Traits

I grew up with two mentally ill parents.

My mother was the Manic-Depressive,

but Darling Dad was the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder-Type.

I like to think I take after them both.

I like to think somewhat, I am nothing like either one of them,

at all.

I get most of my crazy from my Mommy,

that’s just how the chips were stacked against me.

Keeping this in mind, however, I do have

certain quirks or obsessive traits just like my Father.

One, fine fault, is I can never completely let go-of the past-of

MY very own past, and the people who once were important in it-

no matter how briefly.

It makes no sense to me,

perhaps it is my Artist side, to obsess to focus exclusively,

on past acquaintanceship, friendship, or romantic entanglements.

Sometimes, i feel as though I am under,

someone’s else’s spell,

some voodoo  monster-minotaur,

vulture, preacher,saint, and sinner-

Some damned Fool!!

Like the Start of Every Journey,

in the Tarot Deck begins with Zero,

and the Major Arcana  begins with The Fool.

a Fool’s journey-

from here to there,

no-place, nowhere and everywhere in between.

I get stuck in the soft even spaces,

in the corners of my

crumbling ruins of a

very lost mind.

I get stuck on notions of persons,

I once had knew…

and to me (well yes, because i am crazy) these memories, feel like mere moments ago,

although its been 20 years or more or less,

I cannot guess.

I try to do the easy math you add-

then subtract….

the people who stay with you for the long haul,

are the ones who matter most….

still there are times,

when i become,

haunted by ghosts,

of memories,

from so very long ago-

feeling an obsessive, excessive, amour

for a single stranger or two, who I once shared

an agape, platonic, type of friendship for…

nothing makes sense anymore.

I realize I am happily married….

but occasionally my mind torments itself-

with these useless haunting’s

of Ghosts they have simply refused to

vacant my premises, pack up their night bags, leave

my mind in tact,

and go away.

And, I feel it’s definitely all one-sided,

my own fault, for obsessing in this way-

for some strange Fool, who would now,

never stop to even give me-

the time of day.

vast sunshine revolution

Huge UFO’s
Vast Sunshine Revolution;
a war with words.

Butterflies, they make-believe
without surprise.
The glory is the Sun.

Which leaves teardops upon us.
Pink pervert, researches a
sex fatality.

Cherish Hope beyond all else.
Everything else is an oncoming
disaster in an motor car accident.

Huge UFO’s deeply
dividing us, into a war of the worlds.
the vast cosmos embraces us,
by offerring the subtle unshaken handshake.

Prideful, and arognant ignorance
rejects any chance to be graceful
to anything misunderstood.

A sonic boom is the thing heard,
a punk-rocker, his remains become
roses among the concrete graffiti.

It’s a vast Sunshine Revolution
and a mix and blend of a cocktail
containing fragments of us
verses them.