Burying silhouettes of the past in exchange for seeds,
a becoming blood-written on the skin
lived in the dirt
in the body
on the road.
She walks alone and the street doesn't scare her.
The looks, the no's, the disdain
are all stones waiting to be stepped on.
It's not this that will make me stop,
it's not this that will make me stop.
An elder who tries to break the spirit,
a home not as welcome if a step outside the path is made,
a temple forbidden during that time of the month,
a boss comment in front of everyone.
Old empty lies from rotten books,
glorifying control on how she looks.
It's not this that will make me stop,
it's not this that will make me stop.