This is for
the “weaker vessels,”
the “help meet” of man,
the life bearers,
for daddy’s little girl.

This is for she
who wears her inner beauty
with confidence,
despite being told that her skin
is a few letters shy
of attractive,
a few shades paler
than pretty,
her bra size:
a couple cups less
of voluptuous,
her figure:
a few dress sizes more
than beautiful,
or sexy.

This is for she
who carries her body
as a temple for God,
denies entrance
to any infidel
that treats it as less;
who carries the recipe
for homemade vasectomies,
when push comes to shove
she’s not afraid to aim the axe
at the root
and serve his eggs

No, this is for she
who refuses to exchange digits
or her facebook
to book one night into her space;
who refuses to walk like a feline
to attract untrained,
no name,
rejected dejects,
excuse producing canines.

This is for she
who doesn’t answer to b****,
hey mama, mamacita
or a whistle
to compliment some dude’s ego.

No this, is for she
who rather be single than taken
by someone who’s only in love
with the thought of being in love.

This is for she
who still bleeds
from a broken heart
from last Valentine’s day,
over Thanksgiving dinner
at his parent’s house,
on her birthday
after saying I love you
for the first time,
and meaning it.

See this,
this is for you,
who can’t seem to
hate him enough
to stop caring,
who loves him too much
to let go; even when
his apologies
are as empty as his promises;
this is only the  “n”-illionth time
you swear over your crossed heart
that you won’t give it away
to be crucified afresh,
to place it in his hands
only for him to
undue the stitches,
sever the sutures,
and cauterize
the vestige of heart left
to love someone else.

This, is for all the men
that failed you,
nailed you,
derailed you from
the independent woman
you still have a chance
to become.


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