In the rise of the new young women I see the regression of our climb.
Blood red nails and tight dresses, our silicone exposed,
our throats moaning to the same hysteric cries
our S Plath savior died for.
Now we don aprons and pin ourselves into fairytales so afraid to leave the confines of our phone.
We sit and watch utube, unabashed we have so much to say
yet still do nothing.
We know in our hearts though that when he does it to her
he does it to all of us.
We trust in the lies we were fed: mainly not to trust in one another.
For what is there more powerful than us
who rise with tides together as one.
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