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
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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