I am not.

I cannot be what you want.

I am no siren in a red dress
with flirty heels and a sly smile.
I do not twirl in childish joy
and blush prettily at off-colour jokes.
I am not a shy young maiden,
breathless for your every glance.
I do not whisper for fear
of drawing stranger’s stares,
and I will not look down
when you give me your cold looks.

I cannot be your creation,
sculpted from fantasy
and some strange sense
of patriarchal propriety.


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