We
wake
early,
before light.
Checklists unspoken.
Chaos, quieted by our hands.
No
one
knows how,
the commas,
the fires put to bed,
we fix what they don't even see.
Smooth.
They
call it.
We know it:
survival, carved fresh
from calendars that drink our breath.
Few.
Strong.
We wear
the silence,
sharp like a pressed suit,
sharp like the edge of knowing more.
We
glue
the gaps.
Predict the
error before ink.
They call us sweet, not strategic.
You
ask
softly
for our fix.
You whisper for truth
but never hand us the mic stand.
We
see
the signs:
the closed room,
the club of good boys,
high fives when we've done the work.
Still,
we
arrive
in silence,
eyeliner sharpened.
Still, we walk in red-lipped and sure.
Each
one
quiet
woman here
is one cracked mug from
a revolution you won't see.
