the protest

My body is my protest.

The cobwebs in my uterus is my protest.

My fists are raised and my brow furrowed.

I wake up daily and put my skeleton back together as my protest.

I don’t show the x-rays, I won’t acknowledge.

I won’t ask for help and I sure as fuck won’t stop or slow down as I protest.

This body, once correct and intact, was the crime scene that should have never been.

Now I fuck myself to the thought of your body burning.

Every glorious post rape orgasm a euphoric protest.

My body is the protest because she is finally fully mine.

Every tattoo, every piercing, every scar from a hobby I chose out of freedom and spite.

Mine.

This body is the protest.

Every middle finger, every shit-stirring graphic tee, every self-defense move, every time my tongue touches the sweet nectar of a clit,

I take back what is mine.

This body, once housed the scoreboard of brutalization, now struts down the street smuggly

My existence is the god damn protest.