she

she was in possession
of a little more than her male counterparts.
she was different,
she had a little extra –
a little something
that they did not.

she stored it by nature,
by the way of the world
and the liquid of language.
it was sat within her skin
and washed along her breath.

she curved over paper
like a tired snake,
charmed by those who spoke
or wrote of her.

and yet, when her fingers
laid pen to parchment
in discussion of herself,
the ink did not identify her
as woman.

she wrote, simply, ‘i.’