Misandrist

Sometimes she seems
every other woman I meet
she carries it
like Atlas
The Chip
it digs
into her
shoulders
her back’s bent from the weight

She’s hiding it in her
left hand
behind her back
keeps
sharpened
prepared to
wedge between ribs
thrust under shoulder blades
plunge straight to heart
when he least
expects

She’s claiming
she doesn’t even posses
this terrible
athame
this bright
flame
this forever
hunger for vengeance
this deepening
sea of rage

She fools
most
with her hiding
her denials
her love songs
her stories about ones
she reluctantly gave herself to
they don’t see
she never gave
anything
they’re all
lies

The Blade always
revealed in end
after The Costume ball
her glass slipper
returned
she’s in tattered clothes again
mopping floors
with a weak torn rag on her knees
for her wicked stepsisters

If she wants
to rid herself
of that evil thorn
(and she doesn’t)
she’s going to
have to dig deep into herself
this splinter has worked
its way to the bone
she must rend the flesh
to get at it
this won’t be pretty
(and she thinks
she must remain pretty
at all times)
she’ll need to take off
that mask
expose her true face
reveal her wickedness and nakedness
open The Wound
and let in

That which she fears
most

A man

Not one of those
babymen
she usually seduces
a man bubbling
with testosterone
with love of women and rigor
honor
truth
commitment to stay his course
hold her tight
unflinchingly
as she
roots the soil of her heart
for the dis
ease
and it won’t
be easy

She’s not
ready
nobody is or ever wants to be it’s not
the sort of thing one
desires
welcomes
seeks out

Not until the longing
lack
hunger for
what’s right
boil over

Flood her eyes
with the tears
of knowing
what a bitch
she can be

As his are

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