arsenal of her

My weapon is her,

the author of all the pages filled with feminist words.

My weapon is her,

the single mother of 3 who escaped years of abuse and the shelter she has in her basement and the others to follow.

My weapon is her,

the big eyed 7-year-old that was told to shut up staring back at me every time I look in the mirror.

My weapon is her,

who lays awake at night fixated on how to save the world.

My weapon is her,

who has been violated by people she trusted and fights demons in her head, meaner than any human, daily but still manages to make all the jokes.

My weapon is her,

who shows up even when the world flashes red garbage.

My weapon is her,

the women who didn’t raise a quitter.

My weapon is her,

the girl we all had to kill to become the woman.

My weapon is her,

who fought while she cried.

My weapon is her,

the one who rages.

My weapon is her,

counsels others when she herself is broken.

My weapon is her,

who is many.

My weapon is her,

educates herself when she is ignorant.

My weapon is her,

who came before me.

My weapon is her,

who suffered loudly, so I could heal louder.

My weapon is her,

and all you have is him.