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  • Writer's pictureJafei Pollitt

Our Bloody Dresses

I know I’ve been convicted of this crime.

Tried and found guilty of first-degree murder

of a woman’s worth.

I’ve distanced myself from what I am.

I’ve let the pureness of my power drown,

to let the compliments of men rain down

and fill the drought cracking the dirt of my self-worth.

But the problem is,

women who let love for men be their personal legend

never succeed in their personal purpose.

They feel an innate tugging at their chest for greatness

And give it to the men who say they deserve it.

We hold up the world.

A large statement to make,

An unequal statement to make.

A statement that should be left to the extremists.

But women hold up the world.

Tell us that it’s unfair to put us on such a pedestal,

on such a throne.

But we wear dresses made of heavy blood,

and calming crowns that lace in and out of our skulls.

We hold staffs that would shake the earth if blown to the ground

to show our control.

To show our worth.

Women know compassion beyond anything in this world

or else we would have tossed our clothing into the ocean

and made the seas turn the royal red we wore too long.

A mother knows love beyond any king that’s ruled

or else she would have de-laced the crown from her worried head

and let her son fall into a night of battling his own fears.

A sister knows truth beyond any brother birthed

or else she would have taken her staff and wrecked the earth’s crust

when he tried to degrade her pride;

Told her she didn’t have what it took to be a warrior.

I came to this discovery when I saw the power of a man,

Raised up by the delicate hands of a woman blushed with white.

Her face a solid, creamy marble.

She was silk given a spirit.

He was rage given an ego.

Her power came from her humbleness,

from her deep understanding,

from her connection to this world we can only fathom trying to perceive.

His power came from her.

Why she gave it, I don’t know.

But I did see her head sewn with stitches,

Her body stained a fading pink,

And her hands indented where her power once stood.

She had become a ghost to him.

For him.

But I can only imagine for a brief moment in her history.

What we always forget

Is that a woman’s spirit is resilient.

She may have lulls or drawbacks,

given to her by others down putting,

But she will always live;

She will always be in a constant revolution for herself.

Because she fights.

We are the force contained before our storm.

They can take our crowns and give us rotten cloth.

They can take our staffs and push them through our hearts,

But do this and I promise you, the love of the world will drown.

Your wars will be ill-fought and chaos will ensue.

Women hold up the world.

It’s best you carry your queens with grace.

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