My body is a prison,
one I did not choose for myself
a long time ago

My bra is a prison
existing outside of a cage
in absence of steel bars 
yet I still feel its presence,
a suffocation, 
my skin tightens and reddens
air becomes thin
so, I am weak
relapsed into an old obligation,
a bitter temptation,
a false attempt
to look the part
to silence external glances,
your aggressive assertions
of my spirit and flesh

My hair is a threat
to old fashioned ghosts
who sacrifice freedom for tradition
and pleasure for submission
who would rather see me naked
than hairful
who growl at my sight
and feed on my insecurities

Our prison is often tangible
sometimes conceptual
yet always repressive,
private and communal
anachronistic, hopeless (?)

Today I stand firm on the bones of my past
and of those who fell for me
I am a different future
I am my own future
not frivolous, but bold
not marginal, but radiant
not afraid, but confident
in following my own path
and making my own rules