Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • What a strange thing
    to be born a woman.
    My body a silent river,
    all feeling flowing to and from.
    Deep undercurrents urge me
    towards expansive waters.
    A feather like rhythm that is a pulse.

    What a strange thing
    to be born a woman.
    My eyes bottomless pools,
    mirrors shape-shifting images.
    Faces looking in and out,
    seasons always changing.
    A sisterhood that was never born.

    What a strange thing
    to be born a woman.
    My arms sturdy branches
    offering shelter to the passer by.
    Reaching up to the sky in solemn prayer,
    digging roots deep into the ground.
    Holding out fruit and home.

    What a strange thing
    to be born a woman.
    My congenital birth right,
    to inherit pain and shame
    like a crown of thorns
    adorning my head.
    Guilt laced with blood.

    What a strange thing
    to be born a woman.
    To be sold into bondage
    by my benefactors and forefathers.
    With a burning kiss on the cheek,
    hands and feet tied up to a cross.
    Caged ornament behind glass doors.

    What a strange thing
    to be born a woman.
    A past without history,
    a song without a voice.
    Everything and nothing,
    only water flowing.
    Life pouring forward love.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.