Her tears, that once meant more,
now cause eye rolls or frustrated sighs,
because not only is she unimportant,
but she is willing to show her vulnerabilities
at a time women
Her face holds together like the bricks in a wall,
yet beneath there is more than cement,
more than a discoloured, semi-permanent chemical that binds material together,
there is hope.
A hope that one day she will walk through the concrete jungle,
and not feel animalised.
A hope that a whistle will merely be the noise of happiness,
rather than a rope that ties itself around her wrists and drags her back.
Back to the man in the high vis jacket up
on his throne
I let myself be a flower to selfish wasp,
whose intention was not to savour my sweet nectar on his tongue,
but to make other flowers
It is a knifing game to feel you are alone,
To feel your funds are insufficient.
It will cut you up into a million pieces and then hand you the glue to
stick yourself back together,