A man’s world is his — that is the way of he. A man could have sat, waited and wished — if he hadn’t met you. He walks with tightness in his fist — his garden, his view. A man who is pissed — the only thing true. The stories say a lot about the one chosen for him — the rib boils in the tempter’s brew. All sounds are sweet when they’re new. Serpents and drinks in the garden of two. The tales take delight as they spot every seed, every stem. Count he will — he counts a lot. He’s counting every limb. This world, if you remember, it’s made for him. So his it is — it’s how it’s always been. The blossoms and sprouts peek their way out — not before the sorrow and panic that starts to quickly sprout. Bloom. Bloom. Bloom. Blooming as every sprout shouts: What will we do without — without the aided doubt? Still, he watches closely for all signs of life. He’s anticipating with a smile struck in its goldenly sight. The shimmer of its style echoes off the light. The man with a plan in a world of his own — to keep all signs of life and peace, being the unknown, so his own ways were taught as right. Nothing here could be known or grown. Nothing at all could stand alone. No being known. You were alone if he couldn’t own you as his own. The flesh of his flesh — the bone of his bones. An excess speck upon his once-private home. Man does protect. Man does direct the show of his life. Man demands what lies below him can’t begin to expect. His burden to the world he liked a little more than an emotional wreck — was the rib lost in the night. ⸻ (SWITCH TO FEMALE — RAP) Yeah, I did it. I fuckin’ picked it. But what if I was tired of being constricted by a world so restricted? So I relinquished. Became, over time, relentless — ’cause I’m never quite exempted from all that’s demented. I guess I shoulda got a choice before I existed, so I could take the path they say gets better. I mean, shit. I think I missed it. But don’t let my tragedy get a damn thing twisted — a million times I chose not. I mean, fuck — I resisted. But I could not find a single inch of his world that showed he was committed. I became the woman of his dreams. He made me exist. But what’s a garden when it’s full of twists? No rows — just mazes. A million places but nowhere to sit. I might be sold as a villain, but it is what it is. I mean, shit — when I crossed holy lines, it was either that or stay like this. Like I didn’t deserve to stay or be truly kissed. I know in this world it’s all gonna be his. But what if being a girl meant more than this? What if the rib was never meant to be his? What if the garden was never his to give? What if I wasn’t made to be possessed — but made to live? Becoming — I’ll always be like I am: alone, alive, and dismissed. Wishing my other half didn’t see my hurt as a bliss.
