You seem to be labouring

Under the misapprehension 

That my list of concerns

Includes your opinion.

You seem to have possession

Of a rather false narrative

That places my being

Within your dominion.

Would you prefer my

Dress if that one wasn’t as short

Or that one low,

Or that one tight?

Would I be less offensive

If my breast or my ass

Didn’t jump from my waist

And fuel you your spite?

Do you think it’s my voice?

How it sounds a bit strange

But it’s one that they listened to.

And you’re scared of that change?

Do you oppose my mind

How it sits on its own

And it doesn’t chase after

Your faux sweet tone?

You seem to be ahold

Of an incorrect assumption

That my views and successes

Require some sort of gumption.

Your clutches are dug into

This vivid insanity

That’s a sepia stained scrap

In a dusty, rotted vanity.

Take your brittle boned ego

And your unstable perch

And your unsound mind

And your unloved church.

Take your box of old relics

That have long since decayed

And find somewhere else

Where those cards are still played.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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