Resting Face

The rest in my face is anything but restful

when rebuke has licked the self esteem

from its surface.

When war has spit flames that scorched the

flesh until it withered and transformed into

the countenance of a black widow.

When survival was the ruler that

commanded the army of resilience.

Under the surface of rest, emotion boils.

A festering anarchy that edges the lips

and has finally found a home on the face of

someone who has tired of injustice.

Protest is mapped in the streams of a mouth that

remains consistently ready to bite off

the hand that has commanded

her to be compliant.

Rest is a disguise to replace acquiescence

that once upon a time

was conditioned obedience.

As soon as a voice is raised in riot,

to speak above the volume of meager

and incline to assertion,

is when the brand of the resting face,

is assigned as if it were a scarlet letter.

Once you cease to accommodate oppressors,

you receive the nails of crucifixion.

As soon as you oppose, you become

the demon that crawled from a fissure

in the earth to drive men to extinction.

Their definition of respect is only

in exchange for the benefit of you.

They don't want your resting face.

Your resting face is a badge of honor

they want you to be ashamed of so

they never have to lift their boot off of your cheek.

So they never have to notice the boot

print left behind.