the world painted by you

The words don’t exist on this page,

they simmer.

(My tongue red-hot and tired from making corrections.)

I can’t grow you another tree of knowledge,

standing here itself is exhausting.

 

The way trains can’t help but make me open my notebook

and let truth in,

you can’t open my legs up and hope I accept you

simply because you exist.

I’m a woman, not a slot machine.

 

Maybe I didn’t know I was better than that ‘til just now.

You exist with your head full of good intentions

but you can’t paint if you're missing a part of your palette.

Your privilege is spilling over the lines, sir,

until the only thing you can see is your own face:

so you think it makes up the goddamn universe.

 

I don’t hate you, I won’t hate you.

Just don’t treat me like a witch,

burning my beliefs in your laughter,

blood-red disregard scorching my voice into the echoes.

 

You’re painting a picture.

Me: Humiliated and bleeding.

And you ask my why I’m not smiling.

Really, you say, I’d be so much prettier if I smiled.

 

I am not yours to play with.

I wear purple lipstick because I like it.

I kick because I was born with this body

and my smile could smite you.

Believe me.