reading room
You are Weak
Why the fuck would poetry be feminine?! Show me the evidence. Did a stanza put on mascara? Did a metaphor buy a floral dress? Did enjambment suddenly grow hips and sway across the page?
You are weak. You need poetry soft, sitting pretty in the corner, whispering sweet nothings, auditioning for your stereotype.
But. Poetry— is jagged. It breaks its own bones for rhythm. It screams in sirens and steel. It is not delicate. It is demolition.
You are weak. You only believe in strength when it looks like violence, when it smells of gunpowder. But poetry is stronger than you. It coughs black lungs into the dark. It clangs like machinery. It shatters glass when rage meets the street. It sharpens hunger, detonates truth, turns memory into weapon.
And you, you only call it feminine because you can't stand the thought that what you call weakness— emotion, tenderness, grief, survival— might be the hardest thing on earth to kill.
Why the fuck would poetry be feminine?! It isn't. It's human. It's everything you fear, everything you fail to name. And you, you are weak.
— Lilith