The tiny theater is shades of black, the gaffer tape that has faded to various degree, noting the time it’s been there. The black sheets and cloth hung around the seating, the stage and the bar.
Tiny white lights line walkways, the bar, and the stage.
Tonight’s open mic night, and the second performer up is a short girl with multicolored spiky hair, steampunk-esque goggles, and a collection of fishnet, velvet, and cropped skirt, cropped top. Rivets and chains. Smokey eyes, but a rainbow pride tattoo on her shoulder.
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 and 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 need to only care about 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 are the Imperfect beauty rose.
The warrior.
We fight.
Similar, not alike.
Together, but not the same.
We are our own, not the only.
We will fight.
So everyone says
They are no longer blind to our
Complexity.