girl anarchist, girl activist

I offer you a portrait

A picture really, overexposed

Grainy shadows of a girl who

Well

Look closely now

Age Seven

A mother at the mirror

Mascara coated lashes

Spider like and oh so fragile

That little waif of a thing

Hand on hip, premature pout

Hating just hating

What her mother was doing

“You’re only wearing that for a man”

(that little

spit fire where

does she get it from)

Then age fifteen

Got out the scissors

And with a chop, slice

( her hair her hair I swear)

Pixie Dyke Extraordinaire

Like a windup doll, loud like

Bombs, airplanes over head

Underneath the glass is shaking

All talk talk talk

Queer this and that

Demanding rights! As if

Deserved warranted marching

Rainbow flag a flying

Forward still, at twenty-four

Now look look

Peel your eyelids back

Here comes the shocking bit

Hold on to your hats folks

Or just please please sit down

Brace yourself

She’s really pushing now

Pushing fighting screaming

Something out

A survivor

And not the victims you’ve grown so accustom

A survivor –spell it out

C  h  i l  d  h  o  o  d   s  e  x  u  a  l   a  b  u  s  e

(pause for grasps)

it makes one uncomfortable

Nervous even

We’re meant to keep it mum

But she’s not the type of girl

She’s has it written out

Pages and pages worth

Telling all sorts of truths

No silences no hands over

mouths to keep the demons out

at the precipice

girl anarchist

girl activist

rip the pictures out of albums

turn the negatives to ash

be the girl, not a portrait of one.

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