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A poem- tentatively entitled "Bitch"
2001-09-08 - 11:48 a.m.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Reading/Watching:

In homage
prickly-pear siren
Your spiked heel
wedging between patriarchy's vertebrae.

You make misogynists,
not cookies.

Your voice a bright blade
each word nailed in
by the hammer of your tongue.
Those sharp edges
sly and brittle
crack if handled.

But I salute how you shine
as you cuddle your resentment
close like a pillow.

Guess who's back with Sara? It's one of the most predictable things of all time, right up there with death and taxes.

Funny, it doesn't even hurt. You can't lose what you never had.

(And no, that poem is not about her. It's the me I wish I could be right now.)

But as long as I've a pen and paper, I'll ride this thing out.

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