You Were Wrong

This voice of mine is so new that sometimes I forget
What I sounded like in your silence, with no one else
around. I’m a bit of a shit-giver. I am still learning to take it.
 
You said that I should always take everything personally.
That a person’s measure of success depended solely on the
number of their enemies and the age of their bourbon.
 
You were wrong.
 
I never wanted to be the bees knees, or hips, or thighs,
or any other sweet appendage that you sought so
desperately to hold on to after you stripped me bare.
 
I stood there, embarrassed, in front of you. My darkest
secrets spilled messily upon your brand new Fjord recliner.
“This costs more than you’re worth.” You told me.
 
You were wrong.
 
I’ve grown up from the dirt like a willow, winding my
large roots beneath your feet. My branches have
surpassed the shadows you cast over me so long ago.
 
I am simply a woman, not some grandiose idea that
you once had, tried to give away to the maker of the
stars. You always thought you had the best ideas.
 
You were wrong.