she’s tough as nails
and unafraid of dark men that slink through streets at night looking for a moment to invoke fear
or a dollar
or a victim.
she goes to those places on purpose
and she shines.
she lets a smirk grow across her face
because she knows they are powerless against her.
and the lust.
and pain. //
museums full of sick stories and sicker contraptions
and unimaginable acts happening on smokey streets before her eyes
and she’s burning.
all of it—it breaks her
in a way that only makes her stronger
and softer, too.
and angry at pain with no purpose.
head held high and shoulders pressed back
fingers clutched around the delicate power that propels her feet
and she knows Where this power comes from
and where she’s going
and she reaches out these same fingers to pull anyone –
the sick and the hateful and those that think they’re doing fine and the ones too broken to stand.
so they lay in these burning doorways.
she clutches them, too. //
Written by Madeline Wike
Featured Image By Jordan Whitt