WOMAN - Shannon Flynn


Her tears, that once meant more,
now cause eye rolls or frustrated sighs,
because not only is she unimportant,
 insignificant,
but she is willing to show her vulnerabilities
at a time women
shouldn't.

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
with wheels.

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
bloom.

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,
piece,
by piece,
by
piece.