In which I am silenced by the Confucian Patriarchy (a prose poem I wrote in lieu of AP World notes)

I elected to be the half-moon face of Empress Wu’s chapstick. The Small Cottage had less power and no generator, so the scholars determined that democracy was okay there. A heat wave reduced my waxy pore-craters to a waning crescent, while intellectual blue stockings rippled over goosebumped grates, and my yeast-painted lips swelled in the oven, the picture of expansion, trench foot, manifest destiny. I soaked my bindings in molten opium and grew asparagus toes so as to walk over coals.


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