why is it that whenever we–
women–
show the slightest sign of anger or strength
we are presented with one of two masks:
the *****, or better yet,
the Joke.

why can’t we demand anything
without being called fickle or foolish
while a man can do the same and be called
Boss?

why can’t we choose to look like the calla
and not be chastised for pettiness,
for wanting to feel pretty?
after telling us that we’re duped and doped by media,
we’re labeled with a laugh
or the scales of a serpent when we want
to to bite back.

you chuckle when i bare my teeth,
you tell me that i’m cute when I’m angry.
I dare you to tell me why.

i am not a *****
i am far from a Joke.
i have skin and bones
hands to work with
eyes to see and most importantly
i have guts.
*i am human.

your warm, smooth touch lingered on my skin,
words dripping effortlessly from your lips
coursing slowly through my veins.
the sincerity you showed is still stuck in my mind,
crystallized
like sickeningly sweet amber.

but your touch turned gritty and bitter,
your words no longer flowing
but harsh and rasping, making sure
to cut me as i try to stomach them.
your tacky exterior enticed
the insects that bite and sting relentlessly and eventually
you replaced me.

you were like honey,
but now you’re just the faint memory
of sweetness on my tongue.

crisis chat will
only get you so far--
throws you a lifevest when
you’re drowning but doesn’t
tell you how to use it,
lets you flounder in the sea
uncontrollably gasping for air,
drowns you in the issues
watches you
as the current sweeps
     you
             away
and then tells you it’s going to be okay.