For the Oppressed Ox-Eye Daisies

She snaps the heels off her stilettos
That never gave her enough stature.
To cease treading lightly alongside the
Henry Tudors and Pablo Picassos
Due to two X's that cannot be overlooked
In neither success nor plight. She aspires
To elope with her unrelenting stanzas against
Those who spoke misogynistic things like
“Boys don’t like it when girls-”
She does not have to be anyone’s darling.
Not a face without a befuddled look
When she shrieks “I am who I am!”
Hand no longer a delicate lily-white, but hardened to
That of a prison cell and barren of a two carat anchor.
Clenched around the fine-tipped pen to
Fiercely drill “X + Y ≠ power” for
All of the ox-eye daisies who had
Their petals plucked off by patriarchs.
 

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