I’ve heard a man.
“He says, where your soul lives is unreal–
because it has been penetrated by another man’s logic, licked by another man’s stupidity, ruined by another man’s disgrace.”
Now dirty before his eyes.
furious as he is—
“He says, look at Cassandra! Elegant; so classy.
or Amanda, confident, driven and wild.
And Diana? Definitely far from you!”
They’re not easy to be unloved–
Exactly, the type who rekindles a strange rage of disgust–!”
If I have been a patient before your eyes perhaps,
I’m terminally ill.
My soul is somewhere else it can’t be an entity of your anguish—
with the words your mouth has belched, I know, you love no one in this humanity
a woman like me spares some distance away from
everything that sinks, by that, I mean you.
We just don’t Rhyme.
How many of Cassandra?
How much of Amanda?
How far of Diana, are you color blind to?
If I am ever easy to be priced and labelled like your three little women, too?
But If anything,
unfuckwithable, that’s me.