Sometimes poetry is purely primal, and the words never ring truer…
You have woken the witch that lives deep inside me.
You have removed the slumber chains from the giant of old.
You have handed me a box of matches and no chaperone
And a world made of lies and polyester.
You have barked up the wrong bitch.
I have shucked off the good, southern lady’s cloak,
Of the homecoming court, the cheerleader,
The preacher’s daughter, hands gentled in her lap.
They tied it at my neck with a bow, a Gordian girl-knot,
When I was young and bossy and sure-footed
“For protection,” they said.
Whose protection? I wondered.
I have sent that shit out to the dry cleaners
I will not pick it up
They can sell it for a profit from a rack on the street.
From now on,
I’m exposing the raw pink edges of my true skin to the sun.
View original post 606 more words