She's got exhaustion in her bones,

but they still hand her the broom at dawn.

The preachers, the bosses, the kitchen-table dictators

carve their rules into the dark circles under her eyes.

They want her body as their ledger,

her silence—a sacred psalm.

So she grinds her teeth on stained-glass hypocrisy,

spits out the shards of a thousand "yes sir"s.

I AM NOT YOUR

sin with a pretty face!

Not your

midnight punchbag, unpaid maid, or

"honey, dinner's late" excuse!

Boardroom brawl? Darling, she's armed

with Hatshepsut's ledger and

Medusa's glare.

They call her "emotional"—

The system's a rigged slot machine:

spits out diapers when she bets her degree.

We're the coins jammed in the mechanism,

making kings choke on their own quarters.

You wanted a femme fatale?

Here—

my blistered hands signing eviction notices,

my PhD in

burning dead men's blueprints.

Game over,

boys.