Our flesh inflamed, frenzied, and moist-
a fervent appetite for you scorching inside.
The curve in our bosom an inadvertent invitation
for you to dig your claws
Your gape an unsolicited validation of
the verity of our womanhood.
The cake on our cumbersome
concealer because acne is
Striving for pretty
because it is an imperative
of being woman.
So this is to you,
who thinks that
our womanhood is for yours to devour
and to leave in vanquished ruins.
It is not.
It is not the answer to the clandestine
midnight cravings of
And we shall not
drape our form over you
and paint our tender flesh
to catch your eye.
We shall not wait
to make meaning of us.
So next time you see us walking,
remember, that the sway in our hips
and the spring in our step,
The touch of our skin
the beauty in our existence-
you did not give meaning to them.