Gali

I will kneel on broken glass as 

my blood stains the pearly sheen so that 

you will see I've resorted to my last option: begging 

before you (as a woman should be) to rip 

"You want your rights?"

"Come and get it," said the snake.

It was wrapped around a tree

in the confines of his tail,

a paper labeled "YOUR RIGHTS."

I stared up at the snake,

He doesn’t look at me
Like I look at him
I know exactly what he does at recess
Where he eats lunch
His middle name
I know what books he likes
What video games
I’ve slept in the same room with him

Democracy isn’t a mother 
who shields you from the storm;  
it’s the ghost of a father 
who leaves when the lights flicker,  
and promises turn to dust 
in his palms. 

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

There’s this song,

Slipping Through My Fingers.

By ABBA. From Mamma Mia!

That's how I see it.

Our rights.

“I try to capture every minute.”