This is for you.
The rebel woman with the loud voice. Who loves fiercely and fights like hell for what she believes in.
The woman who ashes out cigarettes on the bottom of her combat boots, and marches in front of capitol buildings.
For the woman who refuses to be silenced, who risks it all so her sisters have a voice.
Who wears dark eye makeup, and has an envious collection of books.
For the warrior woman, who survives on black coffee, and curses like a truck driver.
Who doesn’t give a fuck if her opinion turns you off, or her short skirt.
Because she’s tough enough to let your judgments roll of her middle finger,
But still soft enough to love the entire world.
For the tough broads,
You are me.
This is for me,
The dreamer with her head constantly in the clouds. Who sees her future written in the stars.
The gypsy woman who wanders the earth, planting love like wildflowers.
Who finds purpose in other people’s laughter, and imagines a world full of light.
The goddess with the soul that shifts like the tide with the moon’s pull, and writes love letters to the sun.
The spiritual woman who doesn’t rush to give herself to one person, because she finds meaning and life within herself.
Who shakes sand out of her hair, and lounges on sofas topless.
For the woman who has scrapes on her knees and elbows, because she falls down nine times and gets up ten.
Who lights fire in your soul, and tucks your hair behind your ear.
Who finds home in every place she lands.
For the wild ones,
I am her.
This is for her,
For the woman who hasn’t found her voice yet, who has put up with bullshit her whole life.
Who carries the weight of the entire world in her ribcage.
The woman whose womb has been home to others, and whose heart now beats for them.
For the woman who works two jobs to just barely make it, who gives more of herself to others, than she has ever given to herself.
To the woman with skin color different than those around her every day, who speaks in melodies, but keeps quiet when their whispers sting her ears.
The woman whose love holds no identity, but is ridiculed for the rainbow she pins to her jacket.
The woman who fills notebooks with ideas and creations, but tucks it away under her bed each night.
For the woman who chases after him, who fears being alone.
To the silenced woman, who has yet to find the power that lives within her own throat.
For the ones ready to rise up,
You are me, and I am her, and she is you.
May we create a world where we are all seen. Where we are all heard. Where we all get a fighting chance.
This is for us.