I Am Rebel

To escape from the cultural lies of

The inferior female,

Who should

Cry her tears back into her eyes and

Smile as his fingers dance on her skin.

No, his fingers do not

Dance, waltz, nor tango.

His fingers make mockery of her blood,

Painting clouds of black and blue.

But it was just the desk, he says,

That was in the way,

While she was putting the dishes away.

Not him,

Of course, not

Him.

The lies whisper,

The younger the better.

The more fertile, the more children.

But silent prayer is whispered

As she is numb and

She digs her nails into

Life lines of palms,

And bites her lip to feel the sharp pain

Because at least that is a

Feeling.

I will not cry my tears into my eyes,

I let them flow like the runoff when

The soil cannot soak any more.

The body being soil, not being able to

Soak any-

More.

I will not let his fingers dance on my skin,

I will scream, my feet will dance on him,

My scream will tingle the drum in his ears, and

Extinguish the flaming fire on his lips.

My fragile body will fill with anger as my eyes quiver,

I will kick the walls instead of the

Deserving dancer.

This is not what I remember.

I remember my mother telling me,

I’m an untouched flower, so pure,

But instead, in my eyes,

I’m a rebel, no cure.

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