They’ll speak of a woman scorned,
Of what they could not pull from Her
From their many advances,
Throw hate upon Her for saying
Despise Her when she seeks

Yet, when will they speak of a
Woman’s soul?
The one lashed upon
With brutality,
Throughout time immemorial,
The dismay in Her father’s eye
When it is discovered that his seed
Created a She.
On Her first day on this Earth
Is there hope in his heart?
For surely he knows the things
She may face.

When do they speak of Her pain
When again and again
Has been reduced
To merely flesh
For the taking?

And should this disturb, repulse even
Think on it truly…

I feel the cries of my mothers
In my blood.
I feel their rage in my beating heart
When a strange man leers in my direction.
I feel their anguish at yet again
Being forgot, reduced, abandoned
By this, mankind.

For once again a man that boasts
Of his many victories
Over Her flesh
Has become the victor
The decider
Over Her,
Once again our mother’s ancestors
Cry out
Male and female alike.

When do they speak of Her
Her fortitude
Her strength
To keep going
After rape,
After being taught to submit.

It is hard for me
Not to sympathize with this scorn
To understand when it first
Lit aflame
In the hearts of my sisters.
The scorn, bitterness, and fury
At this world.

If no one else will speak to Her
Let it be me.
If no one else will speak to Her
Let it be me.
If no one else will speak to Her
Let it be me.
If no one else will see Her soul,
Then let it be me.
I see you sister,
And I love what I see.

-Angel Marie Russell
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