One day we will be dead.

Our daughters will flood
the buildings of power like we
never had the gall or opportunity to afford.

They will bleed on the steps of
civil law and **** along the the stark
black lines of “rules” like pale meat pandering
for sympathy within their own box.

The powder on our faces and the cotton-silk
of our garments will stifle the very licked down,
spit smothered lies they raised us with,
gutting the cage and raising the dead.

What will they do when we amass
like the folds between our legs, bellowing
like the sounds of our *** and forming
in the clean cut lines of blazers and slacks?

Can they get a handle on the heave of our
*******? Can they take the pulse of our
wombs? Out, in, out, in, like the very ******
they aided us with.

How many months in a lifetime do we
have to bleed and clean to earn ourselves
the right to humanity?

Our girls will know more than this;
mark my words. Our children will see
the right they were born with.

We will be free, we will be free, we will not

be silent.