I am a woman.
I am not the coil-y kinky strings of keratin and amino acids that erupt from newly discovered follicles of conceptual bondage.
I am a woman bleeding.
I am not the leather red embossed orifice that shelters tired toes and rises not on political platforms but in wooden trod and envious nods.
I am a woman with a bleeding heart.
I am not the golden time keeper that mocks me with promises of success on the impeccable measure of continued progress on existence of events to come.
I am a woman.
I am not the coke bottle frame of round fleshy parts that form the lower rear area of trunks meant to rear the next generation. I am a scholar. I am not components of two soft, protruding organs on the upper front of a body that secretes manna for the gift of creation.
I am a child of God.
I am not a sex kitten strutting and slaying for the edification and gratification of grubby ogling lonely dogs wanting to catch a bone in the dog pound.
I am a Lioness of Judah.
Im not here for the sadistic viewing pleasure of carnality society hell bent on hedonistic autoeroticism.
Im here to serve. Him. Not you.
But every damn day I gotta dodge and swerve, the misogynistic quips that bite and nips at the bane of my intelligence.
Chop it up and make them wince, turn all that is super(callafragalistic)-fiscial into espealladocious. Mince Meat. Delicioso!
But that doesn’t mean ish.
Because as long as I am woman. I am not legit.
As long as I am an object. My character doesn’t mean ish. As long as I am a fetishized. Who cares about my accomplishments?
Just as long as my hair is laid and my clothes are tight. I might could be somebody’s wife. Doesn’t matter if my character is flawed. When man makes all the laws. To being sexy we applaud.
Man Law:I pledge allegiance to the vagina of the united women in misogyny and to the folds of my dick to which it divides. One Man. Woman Underneath. In the kitchen fuck liberty and individuality for all.