Women are beautiful creatures, you say
But our hearts and minds can have no word in edgeways,
I ponder at my reflection, and find thousands upon thousands
Of words, left unsaid, unwritten
Painting black, my face
And my reflection does not lie
—no it does not lie, it does not lie—
The heart that I try to hide–
persists to deny to what you define
As honourable beauty.
But my rib cage is bruising.
Because even if I braved a hundred men,
Against a clash of swords–
Would you let me raise my head against your shackled self,
And speak? Or would you cast me aside and call me
Lucky for me, I say, grace is a woman’s sceptre
But what grace is to you is not to me,
I only speak honestly, but for you
Should I dress honesty
Because honestly, that is not me.
So I must remember the words my father said,
—to soothe my temper and calm my red—
‘Flowers of adversity are the most beautiful and rare’-
And in secret, I whisper this to the open air–
to free my lioness heart.