How many exits can a woman take?

From the crosswords of priorities 

I hear a distant defiance-

I recognise it, 

cz you say it and I don’t. 

-Towards an adherence 

To what is supposed to be 

To what is woven in notes 

of when our bodies entangle 

into the absinth of desire - or so it appears 

And experience both living and dying 

living of many of those that live in us

dying of those that are dying to live - in us - or so it appears.

And hence begins the dance of performance and play 

of practice, ideals and a barrage of self-validated conformities 

of justice, dreams and sanctions on conditioned sororities

I endure this, for I derive a concerning pleasure from it 

from recognising shit and braving through it 

for the ideals of valour and resistance I uphold 

And for the many broken bridges to hope I build.

And don’t read romance in this 

I don’t. I don’t, anymore, fancy pangs of certainty 

or the class of propriety 

But wedded I am to chance and sobriety 

And that makes me take

these crosswords so quietly.

What I cannot 

is to subserve your strategy -

that which is masked 

under self-proclaimed nobility; 

or a sense of service to my modesty.

I can’t attest to your agency shrinking my existence

to how much your conscience can consume 

And hence I exit. 

And I recognise it, 

cz you say it and I don’t;

because conservation is not a territory you frequent alone.

I may not operate with it, because my drive is my will 

And I have fought for this freedom I exercise 

But I know you don’t recognise it 

cz you say it and I don’t

That I exit the gates of competition 

With the light of a decamping star

And settle into the remains of my desire

With reverence leaving my door 

a little ajar.