atrophied

when I feel the kinetic energy
accumulating in my joints
and near bursting from the corners of my salted eyes
then, I think of

all those women
who were kept quiet in their bodies
their wind knitted down under their
crinolines and corsets

who never raced through the mud
on bare feet, a hundred miles
who never got into a war
who never beat their best friend

who never smashed their knees into the pavement
or bent their bones over tree branches

who maybe, at best, felt their own way through the darkness

(like I've found myself clawing through
at odd afternoon intervals
in lieu of evening solitude
or actual intimacy, culled
by adultly exhaustion)

all those women
whose flesh was held still
against their own wanting --

how tragic it is
how shameful is it
that they have not felt their own blood
causing through their own veins

that they shall lie dormant
when they could be beautifully volatile