You thought I was a Lady

You thought I was a lady,

But I’ve been outed

Once again

Anger, in all her crimson and orange

and almost dainty, yellow flames

Has burned her down

to ash and smoke

the waste of unwanted passion

and uncontrollable desire.

It’s not ladylike to hate

and I hate

a lot,

and without enough shame

To ever truly be a lady

I curse, and sailors cringe

I have no patience

for hurt feelings

and pettiness,

prettied up

as politics

I don’t really give a damn

If you think I’m not a lady

Apparently, the most

unladylike thing I can do

Maybe even worse

Than sleeping around

or drinking too much

or raising my voice

Oh christ, my voice

It’s loud.

I’ve never mastered

that delicate way of


or phrasing

the unpleasant

Or controlling any excitement

or emotion

That travels through my brain,

I’ve never learned it.

It’s like watching a fish try to walk.

But I like to wear lipstick

and pretty dresses.

I love to look feminine

And maybe that confuses you?

I’m not saying I’m not like other girls

(there’s thousands, millions, just like me)

But here you are

staring at me,

like Aphrodite

turned into Medusa

Before your very eyes

Let’s face it,

Aphrodite was not that nice,

and one bad day away,

from snakes sprouting on her scalp.

You say I’m contradictory

I think I’m all encompassing.

To be fair, I could tone it down a bit

With the right counselors

or therapists,

to strip away and rebuild,

all those rotten roots

But fuck it.

If I’m being honest,

I like my rotten roots,

and I never lied to you,

or promised you a lady.