it’s the way she owns her body,
her style so self-prepared, the
confidence of her breasts, the
rim of her lips, inviting competition.
mistaken for elitist demure, she waits
her turn, her single word carries
the weight of small talk or destroys
the judgment of others, like striking
she holds no interest in outside frailties,
though her skin makes clouds blush,
she sings a language only honesty hears,
in her lonely integrity-she waits, patiently,
only to transgress her lot in life.