To The Man Who Shall Not Be Named

I would tell you that I’m not OK

But you would need to rip off

The dollar-stitched chain

From my neck

So that I could speak

 

And you would take

My skin with it

You would use it to remind me

Of my inferiority

And of your power

 

Oh Great Master,

Can I breathe?

 

Oh Wise One,

Would you mind if I danced?

 

Oh Old, Experienced One,

May I have your permission to feel?

 

Don’t you look at me

Don’t you tell me that I’ll be sorry

 

You’ll be sorry

When the money is gone

When it’s thrown up into the air

And all those you love

Those who supposedly love you

Claw at each other like

Starved animals

 

Your money means nothing to me

Without your love

 

But I don’t want the love you offer

 

I won’t sign my life away

To a set of conditions

 

I will not sell my voice to you

Copyright notice:

© Zeinab Hassan Fawaz and Broken Dolls, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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