That would be that

“But why shouldn’t I?”

she would scream

in a voice much,

much too loud

for indoors.

They wanted to quiet

her, and still her

swinging fists.

They wanted to

hold her down.

She knew this. It

engendered such rage

in her that she

thought her very

skin would burst,

like heavy fruit, hurled

against a wall, smashed

with the awful

hammer of the

unfairness of it all.

Her juice, or blood,

sticky and oversugared,

would spray their

white quiet and

that would be that.

But they would win

then; they would be

right if she let herself

explode before she

proved herself worthy.

They could clean up

the nasty, red mess

and forget the

whole sorry business

if she did that.

No, then. 

She must breathe

deep and spread her

arms wide, from where her

wicked, wonderful wings

would unfold, and that

would be that.