I am tired of men making me
either bigger or smaller than I am. 
When I was younger, I used to accomodate,
I used to let them shape my clay
and tried to be as changable as Alice,
either shrinking or growing tall,
but never quite the right size.

Now I draw out the fibers of my heart
and construct nets and webs,
weave fragile encasements.
Then I am watchful as a spider’s many eyes;
I am still as a tiger in the tall grass.

I catch and snare. I cage them in my arms,
and leave teeth marks for their wives to find.
Then I cast them off like carrion,
let them float away like driftwood.

Let them tsk, tsk in disappointment
as they leave, thinking me too much,
or too little. Let them think they owned me,
let them believe I was something they collected,
like the trinkets and baubles they load
onto their shelves. Shelves thick with ships
in bottles, birds constructed from sea shells,
porcelain poppies and pomegranates,
tiny tin soldiers and miniature ceramic figurines, 
which they must polish and keep them dusted. 
Let them say to themselves, I own, therefore I am.

If I have nothing, it is because I own
only myself — these arms, these rubber breasts,
this sagging, barren stomach, these legs
that still love to dance — and yet, I know
that even my flesh is borrowed. What I own
lies deeper. There are oceans within me
more vast than any poet could constrain.
Beneath this stormy surface, lie the cool,
dark secrets that belong only to me.

Writen in response to “Portrait d’une Femme,” by Ezra Pound, for the Day 7 Prompt that was posted by cerena.