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.