Entry 9

My body is a commodity that men think can be bought with fancy dinners, cheap wine and the interests of their past lovers.

They sweeten me up with empty promises and half-baked compliments,

like a pig being fattened for the slaughterhouse,

they see me as a banquet for them to devour.

I am not a trophy to be paraded around town with,

I will not be instructed or forced into submission

I am here to be heard, to crash and burn,

I am unruly and untamed.

Any attempts to domesticate me are futile

I contain the wrath of a generation of scorned women

I am a fire that no man can snuff with bare hands.