Just a name. Just a phrase. Just a laugh and a wink. Just a power we gave to the dogs I think.
How silly of us to place our value below the equator. Lay it all out, and disrepect the Creator. But I guess it’s easy with our own blessin’.
We owned it to take the power away. Maybe shouldn’t have…okaay? Still we forgot the real meaning. Too bad, I reckon. Didn’t do the homework lesson.
So now we purchase our dignity at the discount store. Wearing cheap T-shirts and patches on our pockets that say “Queen”. If mama knew, she’d want to scream.
“You shouldn’t have to wear your value on your sleeve”, she’d say. “If you’re on the right team you don’t have explain who you are, or announce that you’re a queen.”
Momma didn’t have much materially, but she could walk down the street (Fifth Avenue, New York) no less, without saying a word, wearing rags, and nappy hair and; EVERYONE knew that she was a QUEEN. Her erect, square gait made her a sensation. They asked to kiss her ring. And all the sista soldiers marched on with their heads held high. And everyone knew it was for us, the next generation; so that we don’t have to cry. Now that is true worth! “Do not throw your pearls before swine,” she’d say. “Dignity is battle worth winning you can’t deny.”
But with our freedom, we turned the lesson around. So convinced that we’re strong. Stop and think. Did we get this one wrong? Mad as hell if they say we been hoodwinked, bamboozled. Still, as long as the men wink, we strut on in powerful confusion.
Let men tell us that it’s confidence, when we expose as much of our bodies as legally possible. And when I think about it, quite truthfully, it feels very powerful knowing that it’s all mine. I have total control of it. Only I am responsible. I’ll let it all hang out. I’ll show them all of what I own, as if it were a property with a street address (the other Fifth Avenue).
Don’t worry momma. This is my strategy. I got it all figured out. Yet to realize that I have about as much power as a dead battery. But, I just love the way the men hoot and holler. I love the way the women give me the side eye. I laugh at them ‘cause they can’t compare to me. They’re just dumb ba itches believing the lies.
And I tell them all NO! They can’t have this! They can’t touch me! Unless, unless, unless…they buy me dinner in front of a T.V. Ha ha. See, it’s my call. Only me. Look whose arm I’m on. Look whose bag I’m carrying. See, I’m the winner. Ha ha ha (winner, winner chicken dinner.)
Yet to realize, fancy or not, dinner is disposable, but not free. Afterwards it’s Open House. The door is unlocked. Come on in. Stay awhile. Use my property. See my fleshwell stays with me!
Someday I’ll know that my fleshwell is the most valuable, prized commodity/ property, on the planet. Until I sale it for dinner without reasons or love. So now I’m just a relief. A convenience; if, they stay.
But things have changed you say. It’s no
sin. I twerk in the streets freely. I call myself bitch. I might as well act like it. Ha ha (a wink and a laugh).
All the while, I see all the other women and girls acting like me. No problem, I’ll buy more clothes. Get more risqué. I’ll make sure they’re all looking at me. Who needs modesty? It’s alright with everyone else for me to be worthless.
I’m sorry you don’t see the clarity. It all adds up to the simple economics of RARITY!!!
Hmmm. Just a thought. Just a phrase. Just a joke on me with one little glitch. I still love you. Ain’t that a Ba…itch???
Always,
K.C. MARSHALL
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