Our Own Complexity. Rose Collection #3. (17.6.5.)

The tiny theater is shades of black, even the gaffer tape is sometimes faded. Black sheets and cloth hang around the seating.

Tiny white lights line walkways, the bar, and the stage.

Tonight’s open mic night. Never know what kind of gut punch is in store. The second performer up is a short girl with multicolored spiky hair, steampunk-esque goggles. She’s a collection of fishnet, velvet, cropped skirt, cropped top. Her wrists are adorned in rivets and fine chains. Her smokey eyes scan the room, and the rainbow pride tattoo at her shoulder flashes with the same powerful intensity as her eyes.

Girls are like flowers and fragile and beauty.

Everyone says.

Mother nature is fragile, needs cared for, gives us everything but is weak.

Everyone says.

Nature and nurture, love and softness.

Is woman.

Everyone says.

I guess we have things in common.

The respect we get is equal.

Both of us treated badly.

Both of us warriors.

Nature will kick your ass, is only biding time.

Giving you second chances.

Nature will have a clean slate, we won’t be seen again.

I’m told my beauty is my all.

But I can’t take control.

My beauty must be given to me, acknowledged and bestowed upon me.

But goddamn,

I know I’m beautiful.

Scars and scrapes and scratches.

My mind isn’t a blemish.

My experience hasn’t drowned me yet,

Won’t drown me out.

I know I’m beautiful.

I don’t have to, don’t need to,

Care about my beauty.

Nature and me, we’re warriors.

We fight, but you won’t notice.

Cause we’re beautiful.

This rose is dried and crumpled.

Missing pieces missing petals.

Bruised, beaten, and forgotten.

Beauty stolen, they say.

So, forgotten.

We fight

invisible,

beautiful

or forgotten.

We the imperfect beauty in the rose.

We the warrior.

We fight.

Similar, not alike.

Together, but not the same.

We are our own, not the only.

And we will fight.

So everyone says

They are

No longer blind to our

Complexity.

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