Turns Out Victoria Can’t Really Keep A Secret

She is a girl –
peeling back moderation
in skinfolds, twists
and locks of gently
curling hair,
an overabundance of flesh
and so little fabric.

She is no woman.
She is no icon of revolution,
or otherwise.

A femme fatale
caught in the tightening recesses
of her own
feminine fatalism, flaunting flesh
with no regard for self.
This is not a freedom-rite.
She bares herself half-willingly
in order to be seen
in order to be bared
and born
– half willfully –
in the minds of others.

It is a postmodern un-clothing
of identity, a de-construction
of self and value
– finding worth not in
what is                   (but rather)
what is projected            (and thus)
what is not.

She is a swirl of tainted prejudices.
She is a ghost. She is a slave.
She is a girl.

She is a victim.


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