they say I’ll get by on my womanly wiles,
but I don’t know what the hell they mean:
my degrees? my smiles? my drive? my style?
my wiles are a snake in the sea.
XX marks the spot of my Temptress
the power thrust upon flesh
my body weaponised without me,
my scent a poison gas
for the wiles of a woman are deadly,
to the ones who made it that.
they call it this, they call it that,
innate power they can’t resist,
for it’s the wiles they are scared of, the wiles that will win.
stigmatise and cover your eyes because women get you
with their looks
they trick you
and deceive you
you’re on the rocks
you’re on the hook.
they gave my flesh this power,
saw it for the man,
yet if I choose to recognise and utilise this gift
I am sinner and a trickster
a godless godly gift.
I see my body and I apologise
for all that’s said to me
for you are not a weapon, and you are not a trick
you are human being