Jezebel.

You underestimate me.

Pretty faces with smiles slapped onto the sad eyes don’t seem so threatening, do they?

You belittle me.

Muffin crumbs strewn all over the place don’t make you think that I hide a pair of brass knuckles in the pocket of my skirt.

You call me Jezebel.

When I’m putting my red lipstick on in the backseat of the car. When I’m out past midnight wearing a miniskirt and heels that slap against the wet pavement under the warm streetlights.

You mock me?

Don’t.

Because the crimson on my lips screams a warning, it’s a sign – it’s my warpaint – and my heels are sharpened to death like knives.

My mind is ancient;
my soul is from a different time.

I dream of war, of gore, of storms that taste like metal.

When my eyes slip far away and you write a poem about the distances they travel, I’m not lost. I’m weighing my burden, hacking my shackles, guessing what you say about me when you’re laughing with your friends in the back and I’m not there, wondering if I can return home tonight without my hands dripping red.

You don’t think I’m strong because you’ve never seen me kill.

You don’t think I’m a fighter because you believe in the fairytale, and in yourself, but never in me.

You don’t think of me as a warrior because you haven’t seen what my dreams are made of.

But don’t for a second think me weak.

My nails would glitter just as prettily when they are choking the life out of you, my lips would be stained just as red. Those muffin crumbs scattered all across my laptop would taste just as sweet with your blood spattered upon them.

You haven’t seen me fall.

You haven’t seen me defeated, not yet.

And you won’t see me when I come to set ablaze all that you treasure.

the War within

“To be Queen, you have to be cold.”

Um, no.

I wear flowers in my hair
and a gore-spattered armour,
Pumpkin spice latte blowing steam onto my glasses as I watch the game,
Worn out leather boots and
a millennial pink skirt

Crown princess with a
smile made for war,
I got bored of all the princes
and now I’m searching for the sword

Struggling to pay rent,
stranded in a conference room
full of men
Mascara clinging to my lashes,
threatening to spill over
every now and then

Grease, nailpaint, blood
on my fingers,
My only hope is that my gravestone doesn’t read someone’s daughter or sister

I’d once read that between
her father’s and her husband’s name,
a woman doesn’t have much of a choice,
and that day I swore
to stop looking for Prince Charming,
to stop trying to fit into glass slippers;

Because not only am I my own true Queen,

I am the entire kingdom itself.