The thing that squelches through veins
that oozes in muddy, viscous red on ruined
underwear ; a blossoming, they call it – oh,
what a crime it is
to be a woman.The thing, harbinger,
the sprouting of horns it lies, waiting, rib-caged and angry.
It sees, it knows, it longs to eat.
Wait your turn; you’re too hungry, too loud
The thing bristles, sheds demure skin
This thing has teeth and claws and a will
that will rattle the bones of weaker men
Evil, a devil, she’s a bitch who’s all bite.
But, not a demon. She is just – woman.