The male of the species
Kills with his fists,
With his bellowing voice,
But it is folly to think
That makes him more deadly.
The female of the species
Needs not even raise a finger.
She kills with a sideways look,
With lipstick red as the blood
You would faint if you had to face.
She sharpens her heels on the stones you threw at her.
She kills with the poise
And confidence
Of one who has learned
The art of war.
For it is not in brute force,
But in mixing sugar with cement,
In weakening knees and foundations.
YOU ARE READING
Survive: Collected Poems
Poetry~WATTY'S 2019~ ~NOTICE~ AS OF 2/3/19, THIS COLLECTION HAS TOO MANY PARTS! READ VOLUME 2, THRIVE, OUT TODAY! On the pain, love, and passion that makes me human. Potential swearing, mentions of suicide, self harm, depression, rape, etc.
