you click your fetid tongue
and smack your dry lips
that are quick to contort into a smirk
as if you know an inside joke
that I am too vacuous to understand.
You do not beckon a woman
the way you would
a horse or a dog—
I am neither.
Your tongue and lips
were made to revere and respect.
You are no god or ruler.
The crown you flaunt
is one you forged out of
machismo-and-bravado-are-all-I-have-to-offer.
We will not bow to you,
and it is high time you stop
expecting that we will.
-Nocturnal Scribe
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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2018
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