Ink & Wine Bottles

Yesterday I went to a wedding. When I sat down in the pews, I looked down at the booklet. It had a photo of the almost-husband and wife and with their names printed on the front. I imagined my name on the front. There wasn’t hesitation or a second of consideration when I imagined your name next to mine. It was as though I had been thinking about our future as consistently as I used to (six months – has it really been that long?), and my body had been waiting says to throw your name out again. I imagined you walking down an aisle – white dress, flowers (though I doubt we’d be traditional), probably barefoot. Our vows gentle reminders of continuous love. We wouldn’t be recognised by law (yet), but that wouldn’t bother me. At eleven, some girls would dream about their dream wedding. I never considered what a ring on my left fourth finger would look like until you handed me that secondhand book. The maroon cover stands proudly on my shelf, marking a significant time and a ...

I scroll and I double-tap the photo before realising it’s the back of your head in the photo and it’s you who posted it and is it too late to unlike it? Will you still get the notification? I decide to leave it – decide that I want you to know that I like the back of your head (I still like the rest of you too), despite the unspoken agreement we made not to ‘like’ each other’s photos or status updates or tweets. And I mean, you look so cute and I wanted to like the shit out of that selfie you took last week and comment with like twenty heart eye emojis but then I remembered that agreement we agreed to (I don’t remember agreeing to it), so I keep scrolling and just tell my heart to just chill…… I’ve been staring at the photos I’m not allowed to like and staring at your number trying to figure out what happened and why you didn’t reply two months ago when I asked how you were.

Perhaps the most important love letter I can ever write. To me. One that will undoubtedly be written and rewritten many times over the course of my life – and right now, I am the person I love most (as it always should be). Before I get into the lovey-dovey, I have a little something to talk about. The female body is hyper-sexualised, yet it shouldn’t be sexualised at all. This is just skin. Why aren’t my breasts allowed? What’s the difference between my nipples and the man who lives next door who proudly walks around the neighbourhood topless? At what age is a part of my body seen as ‘inappropriate’? As ‘sexy’? As ‘should be covered up’? 3? 7? 12? Why do I have to conform to your box of beauty, of sexy… Of ‘girl’? I watched a short video on Instagram of an NY artist asking ‘why the fuck do I see people so often being like “yeah, she’s somebody’s sister, she’s somebody’s wife, she’s somebody’s mother”. Is the only way that I can get sympathy is if I’m somebody’...

These doodles combine and compile the things that have been fluttering around my mind lately. From letting leg hair grow, accepting and  loving the stretch marks and scars that litter my body (or at least trying to) from growth spurts and falling over, music that reminds me of Spring and of beautiful people, feelings - both good and not-so-good, and fighting for my femininity. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me the past few months. They've brought more tears and heartbreak and love and pure joy than I've ever felt.

Eucalyptus, thistles, sampaguita – All blooming. Where our roots are planted, Where our seeds have been scattered. We’ve grown up. We’ve flowered. Our lives and vines, Intertwined.

Set aside ten minutes. Right now. I want you here, listening, and I hope you’re ready. This is important. It affects the people in your life. It’s up to you to help keep this movement moving and to make a change. This morning I woke up to a message from a friend who’s living in England. She had sent me a link to a news article of three girls who had protested against the taxes of sanitary items in front of Parliament across the pond by bleeding freely in white trousers. Peaceful protest. Making a huge statement. Now there have been similar movements lately, with M.I.A’s drummer, Kiran Gandhi running the London Marathon without a tampon and bleeding freely. Sikh poetess, Rupi Kaur shared one out of a series of photos about monthly bleeding on Instagram. It was taken down. Twice. She protested, and posted it again, and finally it was allowed. A group of Sydney girls (and Tony Abbott’s sister) rapping to Drop It Like It’s Hot with lyrics about the ‘tampon tax’. They proved ...