the scar on the back of her ankle
the scars on the back of her ankles
in one fine morning
walked in front of me a woman
I noticed the back of her ankles were scarred,
I am too, familiar with the scars,
I am too, painted with the same scars,
exactly on the back of my ankles,
both of the back of our—hers and mine—ankles are scarred,
the scars are twins, somewhat ellipse-shaped,
and once I heard a tale they conceal:
the scars on the back of her ankles
the scars are twins, somewhat ellipse-shaped,
and once I heard a tale they conceal:
they were born from blisters of femininity;
their father was a pair of uncomfortable shoes that are, ladylike;
their father was a pair of mores that forces women to walk gracefully on their foots sheltered within a pair of pain;
their father was a pair of pretty footwear whom her ankles made love to,
he conveyed only ache but what strength is greater than a woman’s devotion to her man?
so her ankles devout,
she learned to tolerate the sore,
no one shall ever know the pain,
because what is more dazzling than a woman’s devotion to her man?
it’s a man’s world anyway,
each ellipse-shaped scar borne to the back of her ankle
are left to all
feminine women,
who bleeds for beauty,
because they must be,
and any other soul forbid to know about the pain,
because a lady shall not whine,
thus the scars on the back of her ankles,
in silence they speak for themselves.
.......
what makes one a woman
who sits with her legs closed
whose hair smells like vanilla
who is a mother to a child
or
any soul with courage and compassion?
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