I’ve been conditioned like freshly washed hair for years do not offend unless the end of the sentence is “im sorry” let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity because i couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords were anything but rosy ring around the Josie, pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your **** when walking down a thorough-fair busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters thank you muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me in the form of fists and slurs and honestly im tired of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps i am the sky and the trees and the moon but i do not speak with the wisdom of travelling seeds i speak with the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk like soft silk i wish i could tatter i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments” but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism whatever the word is this week i will not be another number ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters every second is another unspeakable act i see women with tongues as round and large as planets and tonsils the size of solar systems birthing new galaxies in the words they speak and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled into his monthly issue of mens rights magazine she tore down the even minuscule belief he could have had that he had the right to comment on her body in three seconds his pride, and entitlement shifted into shame and embarrassment and i envy these women because the only time i can take back my power is when i am standing in front of a room speaking rhymes and metaphors preaching independence and strength to a group of people who now think i am a hero i am not a hero i put my shoes on one foot at a time and i still manage to forget a couple days of birth control here and there and i cant stand up for myself in the moments after an attack i retreat into my latte and pray today will not be the day the male dominated society takes my power away because i am small and though i am growing every day i still can only pray that one way or another i will be able to be as strong a woman as my sisters my mother and take back my power and speak not with the beauty of a flower but with the sharpness of a bumblebees sting and one more thing your compliments are not complimentary