a civil war of short skirts and combat boots
stomp through this body like a battlefield
the mirror reflects the slip of curves and gendered expectations
there are days when the proud line of cleavage
is a well-honed blade of fierce femininity
her curves are a study in aerodynamics; a dragon is born to fly
the rouge of her lips and fire of her words
ready to lay waste to the fortress built to keep her contained
on the mornings when her chest is its own invasion
her armor is velcroed chainmail hidden beneath a henley
the curved parapets of her hips are chiseled into blades
the juncture of thighs a moat to be crossed
sometimes combat boots are enough to stave of enemy advances
then there are days when her body becomes the enemy
so she clothes herself in iron, cries havoc in the shorn of hair
a saint whose face in a reflection of war-torn fields
and the constant lurch between dragon and knight
Ren Martinez 