Temple

You say my body is a temple

Yet you paint it with fluorescent graffiti say ‘Donald wuz here’

You say my body is a temple

Yet you see it as overgrown and old, something that you must take into your hands and mold into what

you want
You say my body is a temple

Yet you just called a construction company to break me down to build a high rise that no one can afford,

even though the new walls are thin and wet and haunted

You take the land I was loved on and create something only for those who you see as highly as you see

yourself
Well,
If your body was a temple,

I would throw rocks at its entrance, crack its old, withering stone bricks that hold harmful ideas, harmful

beliefs
If your body was a temple,

I would treat it with the same respect you treat mine

I would pick up the spray cans you left in my temple and paint on your walls, write curses and insults so

you could feel my wet anger on your crumbling stone

If your body was a temple,

I would scream and scream, my voice bouncing off the walls and echoing so I know you could hear me

But you wouldn’t listen

See, the difference between our temples is that mine invites love, worship, and respect, but yours

demands it

The overgrown vines of my temple bloom with sweet smelling flowers
The vines of your temple have withered, weak, brown, and flaky when touched

Your temple is for a king
But my temple is for a goddess