Sometimes the monster rears its head
Some days I can’t get out of bed
Grey mornings and I feel the dread
But no more wishes to be dead.
There are times when I see the hole
The pit the chasm in my soul
But it has shrunk like washed-out wool
The empty ice is now just cool.
I think I’ll always feel the weight
The steepest cliff of would-be fate
But I don’t peek over the edge
My two feet are far from the ledge.
The Kind of Feminist Romance I Want to Read and Write
An anonymous writer explores the romance genre, suggesting literary depctions of women should be subject to feminist critique.
