March, Fiordelise!

Both her hands are on her hips.

Her walk commanding, in charge, fearless.

What they see is what they think they need to break.

What she deems as an expression of her femininity they deem as sexual.


They think Fiordelise is an open invitation.

They think her smile is a yes to anything and anyone.

Never do they halt to wonder whether it is just her happiness showing on her face.

A solitary one, yes, on her own, it does exist.


Fiordelise is frowned upon as she passes through the streets.

An affront to the manhood residing on the sidewalks.

Her apathy is regarded as a flirtation, a dare, a challenge, more than welcome.

She is a her, so she has something to hide, an appetite, not an easy ride with her.


The price just went up, the interest, the competition.

What does it matter who she really is?

What she really thinks?

Has anyone heard her speak yet?


They think Fiordelise is clueless because she ignores and remains silent.

And yet she figured them all out from the get-go.

Nothing is easier than to know the voodoo doll.

Adoration from men earns you the hatred of women.


Fiordelise knows how they define adoration, it’s a quick walk through the park.

A one on one show behind dark walls. Realities getting twisted into fiction as an aftermath.

She is the one who has everything to lose.

Their honour can only become greater and it is always her body on the battlefield.


They pirouette and force their pawns.

The pawns themselves forgetting all about their own consciousness.

They play a game designed by martyrs of the cause, who can only win, it is never fair.

That’s why Fiordelise comes home, and it is not empty, it is full of women.

Teaching them that femininity and sexuality are not the same and that if they can get

Ahead of the game, they may as well eradicate it from the hands of the sole master players.


“Portrait of Countess Varvara Musina-Pushkina” by Valentin Serov (1865-1911)

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