Taylor Steele
Not Today (Inspired by Arya Stark)
The war drums tickle themselves into sirens,
Self-appointed reapers.
They smell the sugarcane of my blood
And think me an easy target,
Mistake my ancestry for empty echoes.
Silly wretched princes,
Counting their victories before they hatch.
I’ve been practicing the magic of my tongue
Since before the last Winter came.
Grown rough scaled and pointy-end.
Sorry, was I meant to fear you?
Must have lost that memo to the wind.
When the God of Death comes for me
And every day he comes
Whispering about my hunger, My hurricane fever,
I spit not today until I’ve watered
The ground beneath his feet into full blossom,
Needles shooting up from the dirt of his wanting.
Sorry, Death. Nothing personal.
I wonder,
What is it about having a vagina
That makes men think me a well,
A wet thing to pull from,
A dark hole born buried in the earth,
Born dead?
I am still my mother’s daughter.
There is no gold in that,
But I did inherit a body full of teeth.
I miss the smack of blood.
I bet you’re sweet. Bet I can taste
What you had for breakfast. Bet your hands shake
Holding your daddy’s flag.
So, come for me.
I play for keeps,
Sing the song of my enemies before I sleep.
Pray I never know your name.
The war drums tickle themselves into sirens,
Self-appointed reapers.
They smell the sugarcane of my blood
And think me an easy target,
Mistake my ancestry for empty echoes.
Silly wretched princes,
Counting their victories before they hatch.
I’ve been practicing the magic of my tongue
Since before the last Winter came.
Grown rough scaled and pointy-end.
Sorry, was I meant to fear you?
Must have lost that memo to the wind.
When the God of Death comes for me
And every day he comes
Whispering about my hunger, My hurricane fever,
I spit not today until I’ve watered
The ground beneath his feet into full blossom,
Needles shooting up from the dirt of his wanting.
Sorry, Death. Nothing personal.
I wonder,
What is it about having a vagina
That makes men think me a well,
A wet thing to pull from,
A dark hole born buried in the earth,
Born dead?
I am still my mother’s daughter.
There is no gold in that,
But I did inherit a body full of teeth.
I miss the smack of blood.
I bet you’re sweet. Bet I can taste
What you had for breakfast. Bet your hands shake
Holding your daddy’s flag.
So, come for me.
I play for keeps,
Sing the song of my enemies before I sleep.
Pray I never know your name.
Taylor Steele is a Brooklyn-based spoken word artist, playwright, and essayist. She received her BA from The New School, has been published by several online publications (Apogee Journal, HEArt Journal, Wicked Banshee Press, Blackberry Magazine, Rogue Agent, and many forthcoming), and is a content writer for The Body is Not an Apology. Taylor's work has been featured on Button Poetry and The Huffington Post. She placed 5th in the 2015 Women of the World Poetry Slam and 6th in 2016. She believes in the power of art to change, shape, and heal.