a female’s tale

I suppose I will be understood — when I die?
that death be my proof seems such a simple thing
a cliche, a blinding light which has no priority: no proprioception.
I am not going to die, soon, if I am going to die at all
it is a stupid thing to make immortal the person who has no mortality
denying them their temporality is denying them the identity to live

so, I will not die today or tomorrow, or the day after, if I am able to hope so
— I will torture you with life, with my life, the life that you wish to deny me
I will live with, with my sins, blessings, regrets and asking my God for forgiveness
I will live it when I exhale and inhale, when I wear a burqa or a miniskirt to chide you
for trying to shame me for my veil and legs — for in each I brought the beauty of living
which you wanted to deny me — by a choker of silence, no fetish I gave consent to
no sexualisation I gave consent you. I am sexual in my billowy robes; modest as I bare my legs: my lips and eyes will insinuate life which you tried to martyr me for with the helm of the shirt, with the housework I will do and you will never give me credit for and the children I will raise but will respect you more and the precipice of my tongue wanting release — a smarting, shattering, constructing orgasm which you feel you will deny me and I am a slut to want for more.

You are the slut for being scared of me — scared of all that I can achieve and all that I am more — when I wore the apron to shine the bannisters or cook the food I am still a soldier battling as an architect, close to godliness, close to the apex of a trinity: soldier, sage and stable revolutionary with all the vices and virtues you needed and more. I am the same when I wear my shoes; those minimum pumps required by corporate to stand in toe in height with men; or, many a times look taller and deadlier than them anyway.  What they think is the erection of the tower of their own bones, so amazing right, just is an ivory tower of height not the tusk of the mammoth, or elephant, not the planetary audience — when I wear the proper shoes to school but fail because I am nice — because you wanted me to be but wanted a coquette too which I could not be and shamed me the once in a blue moon grades I got because you were afraid to admit you underestimated me. That I was out of your league.

My lips be nude or doused with rogue — or doused with the flames of gasoline fuel I will not die today, by immolation, by spears, stones, guillotine or bullets, or you choose to efface me day in and day out like acid rain on the face of what you think are statues. I will not die today of ennui, of boredom, of lack of recognition — I have my cognition, my gears, my sword, my stones, my glass shoe that I sharpened to my spear and I have the hijab, the nude hair, the scarf, the nun’s habit, the shaved head, the colour blue and the habit to be relentless in my bones and marrow. My flesh may have been born from a rib that means I can be you and more. That was the lesson you should have learned when you swallowed the fruit with me. I am poison. I am potion. I am elixir. I can be edenic in the core. I am a rampaging beast but I also show the compassion of brotherhood and sisterhood. I am XX. I am what some call woman. I am mostly female. I write the laws of the feminine. Not you. Queer or straight. Religious or secular. I am irreplaceable. I am the rib you need and the fruit you will want to swallow. I can kill the serpent, the trickstar. Both the sinner and the saint. I will not die today. I live in everything in the ether.

Speak yer mind

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