Environmental Crisis in My Pants

Fire, FIRE.

There’s a bush fire.

My bush is on fire and the world doesn’t even CARE!

As my hairs singe, addicts take their syringe and inject, inject, forget, inject.

I want to inject the world with my fire.

Flood from my flower as I am touched with the aggressive hand of man.

Floods will envelope cities and tsunamis will destroy like our autonomy is destroyed without a vote. With a vote? Not from us though.

Flooding, blooding, I’ve had my period. A period of catastrophe, a period of pain that contracts mother nature’s womb.

Iconoclasm, the female orgasm, the former happening constantly and the latter a faked leg spasm.

Reduce, re-use, recycle. Man is a re-user, a domestic abuser. recycling history, man winner, woman loser.

But Mother Nature knows, whose culture is harming. And women rise up at a rate so alarming. 

Our bodies are nature, bodies will heal, and we’ll take back our power like we’re stealing a Tesco meal deal.

Illustration By Chiara Baker