She's got exhaustion in her bones,
but they still hand her the broom at dawn.
The preachers, the bosses, the kitchen-table dictators
carve their rules into the dark circles under her eyes.
They want her body as their ledger,
her silence—a sacred psalm.
So she grinds her teeth on stained-glass hypocrisy,
spits out the shards of a thousand "yes sir"s.
I AM NOT YOUR
sin with a pretty face!
Not your
midnight punchbag, unpaid maid, or
"honey, dinner's late" excuse!
Boardroom brawl? Darling, she's armed
with Hatshepsut's ledger and
Medusa's glare.
They call her "emotional"—
The system's a rigged slot machine:
spits out diapers when she bets her degree.
We're the coins jammed in the mechanism,
making kings choke on their own quarters.
You wanted a femme fatale?
Here—
my blistered hands signing eviction notices,
my PhD in
burning dead men's blueprints.
Game over,
boys.
