I used to think that everyone who was creative
Had good morals
Naive, I know

My own mother, for instance 
She threw away her art, her poetry 
For a man full of vinegar,
An abuser,
Her and him both 

I used to look at other girls with tattoos and colorful hair
And think, “Wow! cool!
They must be awesome!”
Then I would talk to them
And they believed
Women shouldn’t have a choice
It sickened me
It hardened me
I soon came to believe that not everyone 
Is who you think they are

I had trust issues anyway, 
You know the abusive parents and all,
But they put on such a good show
Just like those girls
Poor things
Thinking they have no choice 
Their bodies belong to old white men
Who think women are just devises 
For sex and parenthood