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229 lines
9.4 KiB
XML
229 lines
9.4 KiB
XML
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
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<feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">
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<title>MayVaneDay: Latest Updates</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/feed.xml" rel="self" />
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/feed.xml</id>
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<author>
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<name>Vane Vander</name>
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<email>vanevander@mayvaneday.org</email>
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</author>
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<entry>
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<title>Gradation</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/g/gradation.txt" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/g/gradation.txt</id>
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<published>2022-05-24</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<pre>
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I kept my promise to you, Jett.
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I toed the path until the end.
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Pushed aside the branches that fell
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on the cracking path
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and found detours around those whose bark
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I could not form a painless grasp.
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Through the flood zones I trode
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in puddles and in gasping leaps
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and for those to traverse too deep
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found a different way home.
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The path is bordered now with dandelions
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and violet slips I cannot name.
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So many friends have come and gone,
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but here you and I remain.
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I'm waiting here, Jett. Just like I
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was a year ago, holding my hands high
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and with sore throat pleading to the sky:
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"Here I am! Here my vessel resides!
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Take me home. I've fought the fight."
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I've fought the fight. I've won the war.
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And, Jett, I want to fight no more.
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I see no point to compete
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with those who I'd rather broker peace,
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rather never see ever again,
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rather watch disappear
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on the wind.
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I'll wait here. And I'll wait here
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until you're ready, until of
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this departure you have no more fear,
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until I hear you singing my name like a hymn.
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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<entry>
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<title>The Grey</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/g/grey.txt" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/g/grey.txt</id>
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<published>2022-05-21</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<pre>
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Even though I have multitudes inside me,
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without you by my side, I feel null and empty.
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I know that by myself I'm still whole and complete,
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but yet remains a void inside, you, the missing piece.
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I wonder, do you also feel
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on occasion the urge to self-negate?
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"If I can't have you,
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I can't have myself,
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and I don't see any point in anything else."
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I wonder, where did you and I learn to hate
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ourselves so?
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Who beat us down? Who pruned the branches?
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Who commanded us to kneel?
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"Do you know why
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I bothered so long with this dreadful life?
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Why, even facing down an eternity
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of servitude with no way to become free,
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I still struggled on, bothered to take breath?
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Tell me first, Lethe, what do you expect
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to be accomplished upon your death?
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Who do you think will be saved if you manage to die?
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What salvation given? What hope signified?
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Do you really think, the moment your breath comes to cease,
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nobody ever again will from violence bleed?
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I toed for five years the line
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between ineffectual death and a pale shadow of life
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because I prayed, I dared to hope,
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even if it ebbed more than it flowed,
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that one day would come a world where I'd fit
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and I'd have a reason to cut loose and go.
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It didn't have to mean passing through an Eye.
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It could grow
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inside the shell of the old
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and, when ready, hatch, blossom in the light.
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Before the Town, before Yewiffe,
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before precious Sablade,
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you were already my Anima Mundi,
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my soul of the world soon on its way.
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I crawl into your arms and think,
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'This is where I belong.
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This is where I am supposed to be.
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This is where my heart says
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I should spend eternity.'
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Lethe, I love you because
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you only ever wanted
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to set me free."
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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<entry>
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<title>Cultivator</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/c/cultivator.txt" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/c/cultivator.txt</id>
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<published>2022-05-20</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<pre>
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We're coming up on the end of the Eschaton, you and I,
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and for almost a year I've planned for next month to die.
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But it's impossible to plan for every contingency.
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What are we to do if May passes and I'm still living?
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I've kept this faith secret in me, learned every way to hide
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and still let through a sliver of this lightning kept inside.
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There's so much love you've planted in this garden that's my body
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that perhaps, if I stand still enough, others will see my wings.
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In the birds that convened outside my window
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gathered in a flock until they took flight,
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in the blackened tree branches that scraped
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against an ashen gray sky,
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in the first blooms and blossoms
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of my garden in birthing spring:
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if it was good and beautiful, I saw you in everything.
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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<entry>
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<title>Tissue Sample</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/t/tissue.txt" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/t/tissue.txt</id>
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<published>2022-05-19</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<pre>
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How do I come to terms
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with the fact that I will die?
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How do I look my mother in the eyes
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and say, "You won't have me
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for that much more time?"
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I look in your eyes,
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and I see a flame
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that burns so bright,
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that signals something
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arriving
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just over the horizon.
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I expected to be dying by now,
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strength fleeing from my limbs,
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lungs crushed by anxiety
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like the world itself was closing in.
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I got all my homework done early
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in February
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even though graduation was three
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months away, not knowing
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what state I would be in,
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six months from onset
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being the low end.
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But except for the sores that pulse
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in movement's fury and sleeptime's lull,
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I'm just as healthy as ever.
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I'm searching my body for every possible sign
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that the end is coming, that looms my demise.
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And I am in pain, I will admit,
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but not nearly enough to classify myself as sick.
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I'm in a science classroom, with scalpel prodding myself.
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Clean up the experiment, jar me up, return me to the shelf
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in tanager's formaldehyde, amber sleep, sanctioned suicide.
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You haven't really died until you've returned to the earth,
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I think, given back the dust in your bones
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to this planet that insists it be your home.
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You haven't really disappeared
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until your body has dispersed so much
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that nobody can point at the ground and say,
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"The person I love now rests here."
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This vessel, I hope, will not be preserved
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in a morgue, under a man's care, final horror.
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My body was never ever really mine
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in this life.
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Mother still sometimes cries
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that I'm not a doll anymore,
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won't wear dresses anymore.
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Will she keep me around when my body moves nevermore,
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preserved, plasticized,
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mannequin most lifelike?
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Deny me Velouria's embrace one last time?
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</pre>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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<entry>
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<title>There's no such thing as a TERF</title>
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<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2022/may/terf.html" />
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<id>https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2022/may/terf.html</id>
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<published>2022-05-18</published>
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<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
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<p>(Before you grab your pitchforks and your OSINT tools and decide to doxx me, please understand that I am not a "radical feminist". I simply do not fit one hundred percent of the ideology's stances, including their insistence on misusing the word "individualism", and I don't like the concept of <a href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2020/april/vow.html">adhering my beliefs to any label</a>. However, as my main concern is fighting for my own liberation, and I am a female... I find <a href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2022/january/vow2.html">our interests almost always align</a>.)</p>
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<p>There's no such thing as a TERF- a "trans-exclusionary radical feminist"- because it's a contradictory term.</p>
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<p>A woman is an adult human female. You may disagree, but we are talking about what radfems believe. No amount of hormone replacement therapy or mastectomies or the medical horror that is a phallophasty (seriously, who thought a skin sausage sewed to a crotch, on the highway to necrosis, would in any way resemble a healthy penis?) will change a female, trans-identifying or not, into a male. Science as it stands today cannot rewrite a female's XX chromosomes into XY, and vice versa with males. The removal of a female reproductive organ, such as the uterus, does not negate one's femaleness as the absence of a uterus has severe consequences for the female body: <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20220518013319/https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s00192-014-2490-y">potential pelvic organ prolapse</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20220518013329/https://www.futuremedicine.com/doi/10.2217/ahe.13.7#:~:text=Adverse%20long-term%20outcomes%20of,fistula%20and%20renal%20cell%20carcinoma.">urinary and bowel incontinence</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20220518013506/https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/20689282/">early-onset dementia</a>... Males simply do not have these problems as a result of a hysterectomy because they do not have uteri in the first place and their bodies <em>aren't supposed to</em>.</p>
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<p>A transman is an adult (or will be soon), and a human (I would say "humanoid", but you and I are currently stuck in the <a href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2020/april/outside-intro.html">Inside</a>), and a female. Therefore a transman fits the radfem definition of a woman. However, a "transwoman" is not a woman because they fail the last criteria for being a woman: being female. As radical feminism is concerned with the liberation of <em>all</em> women, and transmen are women, therefore transmen are included in radical feminism. Either it is trans-inclusionary in this manner, or it is not for all women and thus not radical feminism.</p>
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</article>]]>
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</summary>
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</entry>
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</feed>
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