Ceci N'est Pas

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She will not be spoken to

as if brand new

to this, his world:

the one she's been lead into,

like some back-alley speakeasy

where only men are heard.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She will not breathe in your smoke

or choke down pomegranate seeds

in the hopes of being freed

of your intentions.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She is not meant to be made;

to be modelled

after reformed prisoners

let out on good behaviour.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She is not meant to be made up

or blown up

or sewn up

and shipped out to Stepford.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She is not the porcelain smile

that your father made her wear

so that her bared teeth

would not frighten your child mind.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She is not responsible

for how you live your life

or whether or not you get to.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She is her own perfect storm

of vengeances sworn

and penances savoured.

Ceci n'est pas un femme.

She is not the end of all

the easer of

receiver of

your suffering.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

Animal untamed, maybe but

not one who needs training.

Ceci n'est pas une femme.

She is a tempest,

raging.