Oh, don’t worry, honey, I see you.

My clear blue eyes are directed at you,

dimpled chin, resting in the palm of my hand –

patiently listening to you unhinge your opinions,

laughing silently as you blissfully mansplain.

Don’t be fooled by my tiara, sweetheart,

I am still a blacksmith’s daughter, and I will

fuck you up. I will arm wrestle your incessant

belittling into the grave for your ignorance

(which I kindly dug).

Don’t be fooled by my pursed lips, kind sir,

I am itching to slap you with the intelligence

you lack. I cordially invite you to shove

your fat mouth into my crown of hyacinth

daggers, where you will finally taste what’s it’s like –

to be cut off.