More Medusa Than Muse

Not enough, maybe,
but there have been times when I have been too much.
An image in a man’s poem whose hands had never held me, or
had held me too tightly, or would’ve given anything just to hold me,
once – who made my body into more than blood and bones,
but less than that, too – who thought my beauty
belonged more to the page than to myself – who thought my beauty
was something else; something he owned so could reproduce.
My smile silk screened, again and again –
printed over and over, fresh off the press.
My spine cracked and opened, but what they showed them
wasn’t whole – and I am whole – I am whole
– I am.

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