Pablo Picasso said

"Women are either goddesses or doormats."


Let me tell you: I have been stomped on, trod on,

plodded on by an assortment of muddled soles, each smearing

grime on my Welcome in a misbegotten attempt at clearing

the accumulated clumps of earthen contempt

composed of crushed fire ant corpses and

decaying pine needles from the contours

of their collective conscience.


threadbare and brittle, doused

in spittle, he labeled me incomplete,

stripped of integrity and destined

to wipe dust from others' feet,

but now I recognize the telltale glint

of my own unyielding flint

amid mounds of molten emotion,

reviving in me what I always knew:

"Timidity does not become you."


I do not belong how I have allowed

myself to become -meek, weak- bowed

at the pressure of heels on my spine,

accommodating volitions that were never mine;

still, I know we are all divine. Soon you will

encounter me as I am, a hard-headed and

compassionate font of tender perseverance,

rife with glorious revelry and the incandescent

levity of a pervasive creativity.

So just know: the next time your shoe

comes near my face, there will be


Goddesses hold grudges.