Upon being unable to fold up the weapon,
he tells me that I’m “such a girl”.
I forget that his insult is my compliment,
dousing him in ice-cold water,
and only hours later, giving him thanks.
The true insult would be his approval.
The true tragedy would be all of us,
all the time,
well-practiced in instruments
of death and mutilation.
His disregard for my sharp grace
is just a symptom of his blindness.
I am Other Girls.