Womangirl

This womangirl was quite forgotten. Played nice and soft spoke and helped those that could more than help themselves. They labeled her "cute" and shoved her in a box, no matter her brilliance. And she accepted it. Pain too vast to see herself any other way.
She created through storms, heartaches and missteps. Her pen, unrelenting. Her veneer, pleasant chiffon; her insides: bloody Sekhmet at battle. Her shadow self present and ready for war.
They claimed her as theirs alone. No one cared enough to know HER. The anonymity brought false power. She sat in that BOX like throne, never rushing herself to being. Someone always saw and wanted something they could see but thought she didn't know she had. They only came to take.
She sat at the water with her offering of beer, oranges, a cigar and tears. A safe space to be. Pulled out receipts from meaningless things and wrote a manifesto of sorts with her kohl eyeliner: the womangirl declared to win. She desired a life filled with her own creative work and much less pain. Success by her own hands. She ordained herself Queen: to own, to honor and give to herself inside and out. No matter the hands that touched and took. No matter the lack of acknowledgement, attempts to silence or destroy. She was Queen of her own making. She welcomed the necessary yet brutal cleansing. There was no more hiding place. Her throne was wherever she felt fit to place her crown.