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Domesticated

This pretty thing is not me

By Teyana JacksonPublished 7 years ago 1 min read
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God I am tired

of this bird bone

cage.

You,

who once admired

the stony strength

of me,

have sewn feathers

into the fabric

of my flesh,

covered my grey rock

surface

in robin's egg

blue,

and called it

an improvement.

But there are still

scales

beneath the softness

of my breasts,

and hungry slivers

of black glass

curling on my

split tongue,

mourning the days

they used

to

cut.

This pretty thing

is not

me.

I am not

meant

to be a centerpiece,

artificial wings

clipped

and delicate limbs folded

in repose;

This body

was not built

to house

a gentle

soul,

and these

hands

weren't shaped

for comfort.

You

would slip silk gloves

over the iron curve

of claws meant

to rend,

tip

my sharp teeth

in sugar

and tell yourself

I'm no longer

venomous.

But there is still

a conqueror

in me;

decorations

will never pierce

this thick hide,

and paint

always

fades,

Careful

that beneath

your artistry

and this chafing second

skin

you don't forget:

you are cradling a

coiled serpent

between your trusting

thighs

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Teyana Jackson

An aspiring writer and poet currently living on the East Coast. More work can be found on allpoetry.com, thebluenib.com, and in the poetry anthologies "Circular Whispers" and "Seasonal Perspective"

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