Anatomy of Disobedience

By M. Allshouse

My body has never been my own.
Since I was young, I'd always been told:
Be quiet. Be small.
Stay pure. Obey.

But the same hands that preached restraint
made my body resemble a prison--
prying open thighs like locked doors.
and even when empty,
I was expected to give more.

They compared me to a rose,
something soft, attainable--
But they had seeded me with rot,
righteousness unsustainable.

I was taught to set my own boundaries
but punished the moment I spoke.
Solitary confinement for speaking truth--
a scourge to society.
yet held on a pedestal
for humanity to praise.

I've grown tired 
of this cyclical benchmark:
too fat, too thin,
too much, too plain.

Meant to bend. 
Meant to break.
Body and soul--
Until I form to their mold.