This and every other girl
On the newspaper, on the poster
On the banner in front of the protest march.
This and every other girl.
We have the same face, the same nose,
The same anxious pose.
This is the most that some of us will ever be.
Candles and warning stories.
20 years reduced to a trigger warning.
The boot on the neck that cut a little too deep for everyone to ignore.
And the rest of us write poems and stories
About the boot on her neck
Ignoring the boot on our necks.
And the boot-wearers, the clever intellectuals,
Wielders of pretty words that polish boots.
They cry loudly. They mourn the loss of another neck.
The boot-owners argue. How deep should a boot be placed anyway? Not too deep, of course.
Not too less either, they all agree.
Only just the right amount.
They shake hands. They pat themselves on the back. The girl is forgotten.
At night, I try not to think of our similar nose.
