One-hundred and Eighty-nine: Press Play

For her, every day is independence day. She’ll throw the mean reds like plates,
sing the blues out of tune on an old piano, grind her teeth like white noise.
She is a soldier, just like every other woman, digging her heels in the dirt.
Her knives are her eyes, her words are her bullets. Her strength does not
lie in the volume of her voice, or the force of her fist. She might look
away when she is shy, trip over her thoughts, stutter when she should
flow, make the wrong sacrifices or put too many ideas in her pipe, but:
if she is wrong, she will smile and admit it,
if  you need a shoulder, she can take the weight,
if she feels safe, she unfolds, the opposite of origami,
if you hit her, wait, be patient, she will surely hit back,
if  she says sorry, she’ll hold your gaze so you know
she means it.

She will stare you down when it matters,
when it is not a game.

(But how would you know all this?
You are just a player.)


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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