Unfinished. in The Writer

I want a body that brooks no argument.
That bites, instead of cowers when abused,
bares its teeth at a lingering hand-
a body that stands up for itself,
and refuses to be muzzled.

I have been the body;
both like a door held open,
and a secreted away speak easy.
Open to all, open to none.

Broken into,
and boarded up.

Because-
how many times did it happen, exactly?
Because-
you probably are misremembering.
Because-
you did like when he said he needed you,
that only you understood him?

and mainly-
but wasn’t it at least a little exciting?

I want a body that wears missiles for shoulder pads,
and barbed wire for nylons,
to fasten a shirt with serrated buttons and know-
This Is Safety.
This- is what security looks like,
when your body is breasts instead of biceps.

And when they grab you,
because they will-
act surprised, a tiny gasp from a mouth they can only imagine
giving a blowjob.
That you should be a weapon in your weakness.

These are the victories, these small battles I nestle at night,
when I strip the armor, and lay in bed defenseless.