She stood undaunted,
Her scars burning and
Marking a disturbed past
She stood bald,
Without a cover of hair
Without a layer of shield
Hair stood up on her hands
And sweat wet her scalp
And dusty were her bruised knees
Unfettered by social standards
Of beauty or propriety,
She stood there, alone
No, it wasn't in her dress
Or in her absent hair
It wasn't in her bruised legs
Or her scary scars
Nor was it in her being alone
It wasn't in the absent male
It wasn't her bare feet
Nor was it in her bloodied lips
It wasn't non-conformity
It was anger, it was hatred
Anger built with determination,
Quite the deadliest
An anger so deep,
An emotion so pure
What they saw in her first
Was raw anger
At her violaters
At the system
At the populace
It wasn't an anger that scared you
It was one that warned you
It was vendetta personified
It was a gleam
Tauntingly chilly
and hauntingly beautiful
Her beauty lay in her mind
And in her incredible strength
She was simply the one...
The One with all the strength.
The One who had nothing more to lose.
