The Female Body Paradox

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*Trigger Warning

I am a beautifully disgusting paradox. I am a bouquet of fresh farmer’s market irises and a gaping wound ripped open by the hands of men. I am fresh linen and old, hidden blood. I am pulsing and alive and silent. I want to scream but there are foreign hands in my mouth. I am trapped in my body.

I dated a boy in high school who was my first boyfriend, my first kiss, the first boy to hold my naked body for what he wanted it to be. But he wanted my body for what it couldn’t be. He pulled my sleeves over my cuts and ignored my blood. He loved my wit and humor but despised the chemicals swimming around in my brain causing me to hide in my bed, wet and shaking. He asked my body to eat the expensive food that he bought for it when my stomach had not felt weight in two days. He screamed at my mind for the workings of my body. He screamed at my body for the workings of my mind. But he loved my mind and he hated my body, and he hated my mind and he loved my body.

Being Black in a White World

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With the passage of time and the progression of culture, the world in which we live is constantly changing. The creation of new laws and the inevitable generational turnover have had many impacts. One highly publicized change is the birth of a new age of acceptance and understanding that heralds the death of prejudice. So I thought it would only be right for me to jump on the bandwagon. As of 26 June 2015, I can marry the person of my choosing in the country I call my home. I can apply to any secondary learning institution and believe wholeheartedly that I will be judged by my merits and not by my skin or my sexuality. Equality has burst through and killed prejudice. What a time to be alive! But lingering effects remain.