her history was that
of a long one,
riddled with sacrifice,
signified with martyrs.
her freedom was called
from that first brick
of the riots at stonewall
and from that first protest
for the rights of a woman.
the people before her
were carefully cushioned
with broken glass,
softly stroked
by treacherous claws.
they gave them it all
but with just a little less,
a pair of glasses to see.
sunglasses.
darkened,
to shelter the bad
broadcast the kindness,
hide the nails
in their cosy coffins.
the glasses remain
though slightly less tinted
and she has to thank
the women before her
for their deeds.
because if sylvia
didn’t throw the brick,
if emily
didn’t run upon the tracks,
and if sappho
hadn’t penned her thoughts,
she would be nothing.
without the women
who lead before her,
she would not be able
to fight further.
she is passed the torch,
and intends to carry it
until it becomes too
heavy of a burden.
then she passes it,
burning slightly brighter,
to her young daughter
whom she taught
history.