The Wrong Girl
the wrong girl squeezes herself into space, your space.
with a blind spot face
and a body too stiff for free spirits
she works out a system of lies-
a dwelling for her kind.
there are things you turn your eyes from:
not fights, not violence
but a woman's nakedness in the eyes of manifest destiny.
her lips like due eggs crack from within,
they harbour a song
but, the wrong girl never sings
instead she spits cold water,
and returns her tongue to its coffers-
there's so much the wrong girl covers
the wrong girl is an erection on the body of time,
the plumage of nightfall.
she is a song,
an anthem
ready to fall off the lips of dumb men.
she wears misery like a second skin and never dares to peel it off,
everything that leaves her tongue sounds like a curse.
when the world asks why she wears pessimism like a djellaba
she tells it,
"no woman lives well with death breathing into her ears."
Copyright © Toby Abiodun | Year Posted 2017
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