you ain’t a poetry, my love
you ain’t written in delicate verses,
too fragile to be spoken out loud
you ain’t any of the fancies
for i know you —

and you?
you ain’t her.
that girl
who was too weak to speak up?
you ain’t her, anymore.

i think your bones
were made in an elsewhere place.

for else i don’t know
what would explain
the inconceivable strength
that makes you, you.

the way you look into the devil’s heart
and do not see there a cemetery or death
instead, you carve your name
on the tombstone of it’s existence
with a switchblade,
i don’t know what to make of you then.

you defeat it,
so effortlessly
and laugh over it
as you recite it to a friend
i don’t know how to go back to sleep
in that moment. to make peace with you.

paradox girl,
mighty woman,
you are the thing
that terrifies —
maiden and monster,
cure and poison
all of these things
and the same time, human.

you ain’t a poetry, my love
defined by no man.

for me,
you are a whole damn story.
your own story.
blazing through the world
turning history into herstory.

so when they dare tell you
of all the things
they think you cannot be
smile, and tell them,

“i am a woman, with my story
written in the ink of blood.
i am
war and human
and there’s nothing that can now be done.”

#PredominantEmotion
© ATQ