Protest poem

Don't try to use me like a hole, dug out of dirt,
a drop spot for dead ideas about my surface.

I am not a ditch (void, and violable), a storage
for stench held bags of garbage crammed leaking.

Don't try to clothe my eyes with a veil of vanity
so that I can't see the dissection of my body.

I am not a pattern that can be altered by snip,
snip, snipping pieces re-a-rang-ed, deconstructed.

I  will not be buried alive, will not be blinded by pain.
Pretend I don't exist. I'll write myself again.