Aisle Seven Revelations

Under Rite Aid’s fluorescent hum,

I think about how they package us —

women in pretty plastic,

sealed with tamper-proof expectations,

price tags dangling from our ankles.

They say: be pure but be sexy,

be quiet but be interesting,

be strong but never stronger than him,

be a lady but don’t be a prude,

be independent but don’t scare them off.

Every rule has its shadow,

every commandment contradicts itself,

until you’re standing in the aisle

holding two boxes that cancel each other out.

And yet—

I am the glitch in their blueprint.

I walk barefoot through the unwritten laws,

buy what I please,

kiss who I please.

Two boyfriends, two trailers I bought myself,

parked in my own backyard

like monuments to freedom.

We build our home on communication and honesty—

no bars, no locks, no invisible chains.

I am blessed.

I am the storm that knows her own center.

Unforgivably myself,

wearing my femininity like silk

and my masculinity like steel.

My stance—

concrete.

My voice—

anchored.

My presence—

undeniable.

And those who matter,

respect it.

The rest?

They can keep their cages polished and pretty,

pretending the bars are gold.

I’ve walked out of mine.

I’m never going back.