you are essentially an object to me.
no one dare invent words that pick and **** and litter our ears
with shards of doubt, dismissive declarations.
the victorious are those who cover their ears and screen their eyes from
someone else's misery: bruised knuckles and a wall that wouldn't budge.
but all I see is a woman crumpled on the floor, her pride
posed like a crow on a branch in the open window frame,
mocking her failing strength and shattered resolve;
someone's fist tingles with accomplishment
for putting that Thing in her place,
close to her true place,
on the shelf
she dusts and polishes fastidiously,
lest he call her out on her "half-assed attempt,"
no one dare invent words
that limit little girls to the plastic boxes
for their plastic dolls
with plastic smiles.
when the seed grows buds,
that become flourishing leaves on a solid stem,
reaching up, up, up
can they see me yet?*
but all they want is the fruit.
