She's got "Maid Marion" tattooed
on the small of her back as a proclamation
that she was made to compose herself
like a love letter in the shadows
of a man stronger then she is.
With a belt
full of notches
that she can
never seem to
her body through.
And she's not so beautiful,
but she's full of sparks that draw them to her.
Because she was made to take their pain into her like fire,
sipping it like a tea to burn her belly into an aristocratic chill.
She's made to be obliged
and pleasured to fill that void.
She's made to silently argue with you,
and bow when you win the battle -
though the war, she pretends, is still up for grabs.
And she leans into the phrasing;
an effeminate hazing
in her high heels
and pretty dresses,
sexed-well on his Shakespearean spoken maybe-love.
She learned it young -
the "Where-for-art-though's," and the "I love thee's" -
and she learned it well.
A hell born lovely across a horizon of legs.
But when she tattooed "Maid Marion" across the small of her
it was because she was made to embody your lush idea of her.
Made to smile,
pout and weep,
and eventually spread
her legs for you.
Breed broods just like her,
silent, and made to prove themselves to you.
Made to become
mortgages and dowry's for you.
A marriage made to bridge this body to that body.
Made to plagiarize history by birthing another daughter just like her.
Like her enough
to stipple the same brand
onto the small of her back
despite the pain;
tonguing another shadow made to shade her,
and dissuade her from being made for anything else.