Letter of Freedom

Letter of Freedom

There is a kind of unavoidable, non-gratification

that I live with — and it reminds me I am alive.

I am good. I am good — but I am also free.

Free to give myself,

free to remove myself if you abuse —

and if you are the right one,

you will never trespass that line.

He stares at the empty bed, the empty table,

thinking of me, thinking this loss of purpose is my fault.

Did he forget what purpose is —

above reproduction and digestion?

Did he mistake entitlement for worth,

possession for value?

Did he forget that I am alive —

and that I need much —

and that from this need grows my dignity,

my sovereignty, my integrity

as woman, as human being?

You do not own me by your want.

If you hate, stay out of sight.

I needed a partner —

for projects, for building,

a support in navigating the swill-built world

of worthless male prerogative.

A friend, a lover — not a banger.

Not an abuser,

not of body, mind, emotion, or coin.

A protector — not an enemy.

So mind where you are.

There will be an extra package

to accompany these writings.

Sincerely,

O.