Sometimes

I want to be held
To be whispered “beautiful” promises to, and

Sometimes

I need no excuses to run streets
caked head to high-heel in low-cut
skin-tight
green-light
layers

Curvatures
unapologetically weaved
into some savior’s careful bow–
–Curves never Hers to call home

They dwell under thumb of some street man or
that sweet man you once called your own, but
before he strived to own you

These things never come so
Easy
For the one they call Eve and
Something something about an apple or a tree or
A Woman free to live freely without a he–though

She’s meant to bare the root of all being
we
pinned the scheme
on Her