Exhaustion

She's got exhaustion in her bones, but they still hand her the broom at dawn. The preachers, the bosses, the kitchen-table dictators carve their rules into the dark circles under her eyes. They want her body as their ledger, her silence—a sacred psalm. So she grinds her teeth on stained-glass hypocrisy, spits out the shards of a thousand "yes sir"s. I AM NOT YOUR sin with a pretty face! Not your midnight punchbag, unpaid maid, or "honey, dinner's late" excuse! Boardroom brawl? Darling, she's armed with Hatshepsut's ledger and Medusa's glare. They call her "emotional"— The system's a rigged slot machine: spits out diapers when she bets her degree. We're the coins jammed in the mechanism, making kings choke on their own quarters. You wanted a femme fatale? Here— my blistered hands signing eviction notices, my PhD in burning dead men's blueprints. Game over, boys.