I am not my body
But it is my house
A hundred years from now
When it is a vacant home
Will you rummage through my rubble
Sift through my fallen shingles
I fear to be plundered
As men often do
As sinners often joke
Of renting women’s bodies
Yet, they do not pay the price
I am a haunting house
I am not an open door
Will you not respect my frame
For the soul it once contained
Or is the time after I part with life
Squatters rights