Flattered and humbled to be considered a “Dangerous Woman”.
There is a song—
and a song is just a poem that doesn’t quite do its job set to a tune so that it catches, so that it snags and tears and leaves a jagged footprint and niggles in your periphery; a
song is just a poem that doesn’t quite make the cut because a poem that does its job is a poem that sings all by itself, that dances a cadence without teaching the steps and holds heart in hand so that the rhythm leaps to within and is swallowed whole in breathless awe and a poem should be the play of a pulse put to words, should split clean and leave the wound thin
to bleed slow so that the line’s not jagged but the
seeping never quite gets to stop
and so it stays;
but there’s a song on a record that spins monochrome distortion and claims that it tells the story of playing the un-self and what things made for other people look like when they’re tossed aside a left to rot—
but there is
And that particular failed poem drones on about how the armour you wear and the shield you bear and all that you live by and die; that effervescent sheen is cast against the fray to show everyone else that you’re strong. To prove
Which is important, I’m told. Is scandalous.