Taking Back Our Livelihood by Lizzie Boyer (Pennsylvania, 19)

i. a woman’s accusation

blink your eyes open. i am here with you
as i have always been. iron your white button-up

catch my fingers on the hot metal, but you do not help
my pleading scorched burns that hurt almost too much.

watch my bones splinter as you talk
in comforting intonations you think are good.

the ideas you speak of make me wither
a dying flower dried up, crushed under
​

your foot lands on me, cracking my ribs
piercing my heart in ways you did not think possible.

my skin splits open blood pouring out
onto your starch-white button-up you wear for work,

because how could you think of me, of someone
other than yourself as you sit in your windowless office

drafting policies that chain my body like an
animal, but we are the same.

we have come from the same place, but you can’t
think of that because you see yourself as superior,

and i not, someone you have seen as inferior.
an object that pleases you when you are hurt

by your own actions. what of me? your ignorance appalls
my integrity and my heart ceases to beat its

monotonous rhythm muscles spasm as the world ignores
so please, think of your mothers as you watch me

disintegrate, ash float away on the wind
and you turn away from the glass.


ii. a man’s response


yet, your flowers still bloom for me
in colors unfurling beauty you do not

see me try to help, misinterpret my concern
for disdain as i attempt to keep the bloody

burning inside. my heart cracks upon your pain,
but you shutter your vulnerability in a box

so you do not have to look at it. what
does it matter if my starch is soiled by

your blood, white bandage bleeds red and your
blood leaves you pallid and vacant. let your walls

down for once, disregard the others because i am
different. please, give me the chance that my own

did not. my touch is feathery light on your wounds
peeled open from memory. i will not let you turn to ash,

i will not hurt you like the others have. even
though i wear the same button-up they do, mine is

covered in splatters of red as i clean you up
not break you down. i remember my mother

so strong and powerful in my mind, her flower never
died like yours nearly has. help me understand, i will

rise with you as we fight together, break the glass of
corporate prisons, make them see the damage they inflict

on women like you. their ignorance appalls me, how can they
turn blind eyes to the consequences splintering shards cut

into your wrists. i hurl myself at them, shattering the cycle
your chains fall away but your wrists are still bloodied.


iii. a woman’s solace


so you admit defeat. your bumbling comrades
have inflicted much destruction on me, but i

will trust you as i have with many others who
forged weapons and beat me senseless.

you say you are different, that you will fight for me
with me, but will you? will you make false promises

restore my hope in humanity and turn on me as soon as
things get messy? can i trust you? stand by my side and

take the brunt of the pain, the violence, the bone-crushing
worry and responsibility. watch out for my fellow sisters,

protect us from our worst nightmares of flowers choked in
heaps of fertilizer poison our lungs. we have feared for centuries

hulking humans bind our hands and feet, shove us into tiny
spaces breath comes gasping. you will be exposed to this, your

intestines ripped out and mangled, shoved back in
just for death to meet you all too soon. are you ready

to face the reality of womanhood? it’s okay if you
cower and run, i wish i had the freedom to hide from

it all becomes too clear as white-shirted hunters seize you
face blueing as you struggle, trying to put your feet into 

my shoes how sweet is your love for me that you take the
consequences without flinching, silent pain slicing through

your dignity is tested but you said you wanted this. you wanted
to  disappear into dust, bones chafing together as you are ground

into concrete. maybe i misjudged your morals, your determination
is admirable and we can see the hairline cracks appearing in the glass.



Lizzie Boyer is a first-year college student studying creative writing in south-central Pennsylvania. She enjoys writing poetry but has also written a few short stories and novel-length works. A few general themes of her work include love, loss, grief, and nostalgia.