why does your admiration for me drop with each inch that my neckline plunges?
femininity is a fierce thing, but surely, you’ve spit venom at more formidable women than i
does the fluorescent glint of the light off my bare shoulders blind you so?
does the fabric of my velvet mini-skirt threaten to choke, and do the loose frills of my rose-
colored cardigan murmur threats of tangling your neck in a noose?
does skin scare you, sir? and if it does, why dare to whisper to the enemy?
when treading the den of a snake, you fear her poison—do you tell her this, too?
modesty is a weapon held delicately, and to each fighter their own
but like all daggers, it is an interchangeable tool of an arsenal,
and burning pride and bare thighs and blouses that end just below the breasts fare just as well
in a fight
sticks and stones may break your bones, but the wardrobe of a woman will pull your breath from
so remember this, should you dare to say again: “little girl, cover up.”