I fear letting it in.
Into every admissible orifice of vulnerability.
Of failing myself.
Maybe not being that eighth great wonder of the proverbial world.
…I am, therefore I persist in following that ideological figurehead
think I should be.
Not someone to ponder and make hand-cheek marks in simpleton’s
hours of leaning in contemplative awe.
But just another shadow, bored and dull with few short stories to
Just another paper bound book sitting dumb and idle on shelves of
Waiting for some botox-clad gigolo, faux-prince charming to come
Receive miraculous, spontaneous literacy and some shallow shrub
to read me.
To ignore the paper cuts and know me.
But he wont.
I fear surrender to this pathetic state of a well exercised backwards
concept of femininity.
Of bruised knees and low expectations.
I fear womanhood.