You were born with fists, Matadora.
You had to.
They all form circles around you.
You on the outside.
You on the inside.
Nobody gives you a hand.
And there was a time you simply did not care.
You were enough. Your love, was enough, for you.
They cut off the circulation.
Finding the right words to inflict pain.
The right actions to tighten their influence.
She tells you to be a nice little girl.
They scream at you. Beat you up.
And she tells you to keep smiling and behave.
She is violent too. She discriminates against you.
The pretender of peace. She evades the devil and sends him towards you.
Sacrificing you.
They scratch your surface, your texture.
You hear them laugh behind your back.
Hear them badmouth you in every corner of your mind.
The voices become a brew in your blood, a song that never stops.
Depreciaton. Good girl. Take it all in.
Keep them at bay, be silent.
Matadora’s fists directed at herself.
You never deserved this.
You were the loudest of them all.
The one with the greatest smile. The pacifist. The creator.
But they surrounded you with straightjackets.
And she called you names. She put so much effort in it.
Your name is Matadora and you were born with fists.
“Queen Zenobia’s Last Look Upon Palmyra” by Herbert Gustave Schmalz (1856-1935)
Croque-Melpomene 