This poem is for the *******.
The ice princesses.
Solid and frozen.
Hearts carved from arctic stone.
Jaw lines so sharp they could *cut you.
Girls so bitter, *they bite.
Leave your mouth aching.
This is for the evil stepsisters,
The Ursulas,
The Queens of Broken Hearts -
I’ll tell you.
They are deadly beautiful.
They are the bossy, and the terribly too honest.
Mouths on fire,
jaws snapping,
man eaters,
sirens of the sea,
they will swallow you whole.
When the boys ask -
Tell them, no, I don’t need saving.
**** being a princess.
Be the dragon.
Be fire breathing, and pmsing.
Be angry, girl.
Cause you got **** to be angry about.
Every cat call –
Every glass ceiling you will shatter with your bare hands –
Every time you say the word no and mean it –
Every time they make you feel like you anything less than powerful.
You tell them –
You are eternal.
That you carry a generation in your belly -
That it all begins and ends here, inside you.
That you can bleed for seven days straight and come back with teeth sharpened for war.
Remind them that that when something is taken from you, you will do everything you can to get it back.
You will destroy what destroys you.
Eating fire and spitting brimstone.
And never, ever saying sorry.
They will call you crazy.
They will call you over emotional.
They will call you loud mouth.
They will ask for your smile, pretty girl.
Give it to them with poison ivy lips and a razor blade between your teeth.
What no body knew was that Ursula was King Triton’s sister.
A perfect storm.
Banished from the palace -
When a loud, powerful woman gets out of hand, we don’t call it leadership.
We call her dog.
*****.
Bossy.
Fangs out and snarling, we don’t battle, we cat fight.
**** kitten gone wrong, when she learns to leave scars.
A dog, no not a dog, a wolf in heat.
Domestication is a ***** word.
***** is to know your worth, and take it.
To carry it in your esophagus.
A war cry.
Feeding your enemies to your children, and coming back starving for seconds.
Doing anything to stay alive.
Because you were raised by a mother who fed you fear for supper.
Packed your backpack with mace, and brass knuckles.
She told you to turn your body into a weapon.
She knew there would be men who would try to cover your mouth.
So she taught you to bite.
This is how you protect yourself.
A mouth full of *****, and a bark to match.
“Beware of dog” sign around your throat.
This is how you keep them away.
This is how you warn them.
Because the villain was not always the villain.
She was made that way.
You were made this way.
You’ve got brands still healing, still smoking, skin still searing.
You’ve got a trauma written in your blood.
You’ve got a ribcage holding onto your heart too tightly.
You are chasing down a revenge so sweet it could rot your teeth.
A heart attack romance asleep in your chest.
You will come back home limping after this war.
And you will tell all the other girls -
It ain’t all about the love story.
**It’s about the “being in love with yourself” story.
This is originally a slam poem, I am open to all feedback :)
