I am not quiet about the things I’ve done to men.
Like heads on poles,
we chat about how the last one lost ten grand,
and the one before that, his hands. These stories
are a warning, like
to the little girls who walk alone in forests, except
I’m not Little Red.
I have beautifully sharp teeth to eat you with,
the woodsmen keep away, afraid,
my appetite never satiated.
I stopped begging men to not hurt me the same day
I realised how delicious my justice was,
(I did not expect to be spitting out teeth for so long),
and now they cry.
They lost so much
in their attempts to take from me.
Countless times I have told them
“men don’t do that to me.”
Maybe they think this warning is a fairy tale,
or maybe they think, “we’ll see”.
And that’s why I leave the eyes for last, (write this down),
They will always see.
I told him. He laughed, rolled eyes,
I warned and warned and now I roll his eyes —
He held the torch!
I am a forest fire,
I devastate at your hands.
Many will die and die and die and may his light
lead the way.