To vent the rage I feel inside is tonight's poetry priority.
The vast amounts of pride I've had stolen from me
leave me feeling like a disenfranchised minority,
or the poster girl of some broken heart sorority.

I have to get it out before it damages the very core of me,
yet even as I write these words I know there's already scars
that the whole damn world can see.
I see the signs much sooner, this brings about a quicker end,

and yes, even a quicker mend.
And so what if to this end a hand I lend?
If I were to allow things to move much further down the line,
I would find it much more difficult to wriggle free,

from this love I've already begun to grow
like some wild and untamed vine.
Then just when I was all wrapped up, unable to help myself,
That's when I'd get stuck back up on the shelf.

Well no one is going to box me up anymore.
I am no fucking plaything for sale at the store.
There's no price that is high enough,
and I am no fucking whore.