The Poetic Ramblings Of An Aquarius

By Dakota Divinity

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Image Credit:

Morning Woes

Most days begin in a haze, with the sun shining too bright. First thought? My head kills and I want to vomit. I bury my face into the nearest pillow I can reach, but it does little to no good. The light still finds a crack to shine through. And so, another day is beginning. Are we ready for this? Of course not, but we give it a shot anyway.

Frustrated and nauseated, I drag myself out of bed, feet first. Start my routine by washing the sleep off of my face, followed by using the toilet, and finally, the main event: Stripping my pajamas to get dressed for the day to come. Did I mention that I despise this part of my morning routine? If not, let me make it clear. I despise it. More than having to go to the dentist. At least there, they’ll give you novocaine for the torture that they are about to put you through.

First things first, we avoid the bathroom mirror. It does no good for the self esteem of an anxious, recovering anorexic. Second, we hide the scale in the corner under the sink. Then here comes the stretch mark cream application. It smells disgusting, but it’s the price I pay for my vanity. Did I mention that I’m in a wedding in less than a month, in a sleeveless dress? YIKES. Those stretch marks are almost enough reason to slip back into those old, comfortable habits.

After the cream dries, it’s time to get dressed. My clothes feel too tight. My stomach is too big from the side. My thunder thighs chafe against each other. New stretch marks are spider webbing across my bulging hips. My nose is far too big. My God, is that another zit?

I’d give almost anything to hide in my bed, safely under the covers at home today, but I have to keep showing up for myself. Maybe one day, it will be easier. But today, it isn’t. And that’s okay, because I made progress by just getting out of bed.


2:11 AM Thought

I rub against your baby soft skin like sandpaper.

A gritty lionhearted girl.

All teeth, with no low warning growl.

Quite the opposite of your pretty, plastic perfection.


And Now It’s 5:56 AM

Hazel eyes that shine, hips that command attention. Blue hair and lipstick. The stylings of 90’s grunge mixed with grandma. I’m finally starting to feel okay in my own skin.

Now the dicks who taunted me and made my life a living hell in high school, are trying to slip in my dm’s four years later, thinking I’ve forgotten, the joke is on you, I haven’t.

Seriously, how’s karma working out for ya?

Tends to not be so pretty for those who push girls into lockers, for not being the perfect object of their ogling affection. Calling them fat cows and suggesting that they hit the gym a bit more. Pointing and taunting as they try and make their way to their next class.

All you have now is the memory of your high school glory days and broken sense of masculine pride.

Me? I have the last laugh and the satisfaction of not being a complete asshole.

Oh, right! I almost forgot. Buzz out of my inbox. Not interested.


Celebration Of Self:


I’ve poured so much energy into presenting an image of someone I’m truly not. People pleaser, ideal daughter, the one who follows all the rules. She who keeps everyone else together and has life figured out at all times.

Now, let me reintroduce myself as the person that I truly am.

I’m a bit of a mess behind my facade. I’m impatient, extremely stubborn, a bit of an introverted loner, and have no clear direction as to where life is leading me at this very moment. The weight of the world’s expectations is making my shoulders unbalanced, as I’m anxious and confused, only knowing for certain is that I want to write.

Wait, let me correct that. Need to write. It’s my niche, my calling, label it whatever you want. It’s what makes me happy and helps me foster a connection with the world that we live in. It’s a gift that I feel compelled to share.

And yes, I’ve heard the whole “starving artist” tidbit. Shush. Just let me ride this ride and discover both joy and hardship for myself.

I’m also super queer. Surprise! Time to bust out of the closet that I’ve been locked in for the past three and a half years. Don’t make that face. Put away your side eyed glances. Yes, I may have a boyfriend, but that doesn’t revoke my “queer card.” My identity is still very much valid, thank you for your concern. Yes, he is aware and still loves me just the same.

Oh and yes, I’m also one of those people who will stand on the street for eight hours, asking for your assistance in putting progressive political leaders in office, who represent environmental and human rights protections. I also donate monthly to Planned Parenthood and Greenpeace, am of course a feminist, and have that so-called useless degree in women and gender studies and history.

Whoops. Looks like I broke your rule by becoming “one of those feminists.”

Guess what though?

This is me. This is me. This is me. Authentic me who cannot be silenced. Activist, writer, humanitarian, an amplified voice for the silenced, open book, nurturer, feminist, and a mess.


So, who are you?