seppuku

silly caucasian girl likes to play with samurai swords

swinging around words

that were never passed down,

but cultivated through an inner wisdom.

how deep must my blade cut

in your honor

before my shoulders are knighted

with worthiness in your eyes?

i went rogue the moment

my feet chose peace

over the path assigned to me.

they called it disgrace

a village’s shame inked between my brows,

a birthright burned into obedience.

must i give you a clean death?

would it please you

to watch a ritual suicide

all ceremony, no redemption

silenced by duty,

made holy by blood?

i am still full of fight and wonder,

not so easily silenced

by command or capture

or the quiet demand

to leave this world gracefully.

the steel of my blade catches the sweat

on my cheekbones,

sharp light tracing defiance

as the color drains from my face.

it is then

that i feel most woman.