Wave that sweet handkerchief at me.
It is not a call to come over, or by, but
a wave of rejoice. Of revolution.
Wave those dried tears at me,
make me remember who I am to a
woman that looks remarkably nothing
as you do.

From atop the gates you sit upon the fence,
waving that sweet handkerchief; freedom,
free of the chaos of your long-lost lore.
Suffer no more, suffragettes.
Or, at least, suffer openly and not only
to sisters and to therapists.

Scream your pink and black lungs at us.
Coughing up the secrets that darkened
your heart, soul, mind, and finally your
lot can speak in time. With the same
sufferers. Kinship met in kind, as the
emboldened world wished to be blind.
But no more.

Tell us your stories, of heartfelt ache and
the dismal display of attention promised.
Of attention mustered through fantasy play.
Wave that sweet handkerchief at me.
As a test balloon of realising we are ready.
To hear your side of a story you helped write.
What's this chapter called?