They keep writing best-selling novels about how enchanted I should feel
When someone looks at me like they own me,
Like I owe them my sex appeal.
They call me stuck up when I complain, they never want to hear me out.
So, I write it down on paper and burn it,
Making sure I do not make a sound.
They gloss over the battle wounds I carry under my aluminum belts.
As long as they do not notice the bruising,
They do not want to hear about the welts.
They even act shocked when people like me decorate the front pages,
And they march in the streets to stop it,
Displaying their little, poisonous rages.
But those who live in cages of their own making will never be free,
They will bite the neck of every wild bird
To taste the flesh of their final fantasy.
Let me be clear, I do not pity them, I just hope they cannot catch me
As I steal their eyeballs when they are asleep
So they can no longer lick their lips at me.
I will keep writing petty little poems about how disgusted I always feel
When someone talks like I am a trophy,
Like I am something that they can steal.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 