A rap song playing in this coffee shop
tells me women are only good for ***.
I wipe off my makeup
and pull down the dress
draped around me like the softest chains.
I am not like the women in these songs.
Once – though – I tried to be.
(Because we who were not free
all believed in the promise
and false security of
striving and beauty.)
I want to shake the younger me
and scream at the men around her:
She is not your American dream.
She is a thinker. She is worth protecting.
She is not this icon.
I want to scream at the men who compliment my body
and those who ignore me because of it
at the boy from my freshmen year in high school
(“You like her? But she’s so tall…”)
I am not just a girl,
even though I’ve been told,
“Beautiful girls earn more money.”
I’ve learned that I hold a different kind of beauty.
Not the 5’8” skater-girl
Nor the 6’2” glamour queen
But someone between –
– between languages and instruments
and classes and battles –
I put on my armor.
And I will emerge,
no longer screaming in anger,
but quietly certain in my own worth.
Not all victories are followed by blaring trumpets.
Mine will be a silent one –
but no less violent a struggle.
My beauty does not define me.
It will fade, but not my victory.

deaths, we all have
add up
I guess we are allotted so many
before we ever meet our maker.

There is, somewhere
like a tabulator clicking
in Heaven or hell

knowing when
our quota is filled
do I look

worried?