I, Phylippa, have been sold.
I have been bought, bride-price levied,
and dressed for my husband.
I have been poked and prodded from the herd,
and chosen worthy of the laird.
I, Phylippa, have been used.
My mother’s voice, veiled head bowed,
whispering, “Don’t be a burden, accept.”
Accept that you were chosen,
accept your role and be silent.
I, Phylippa, have been broken.
My lip split at a hard-ringed hand,
coarse laughter at my wit,
His angry eyes as blood welled in my mouth.
I would not stay silent.
I would not accept.
I, Phylippa, have been taking what’s mine.
I bit his throat. I tore his eyes.
I took his men and his brides.
I will not accept, I will ride and fight.
Curse me or bless me, do as you might,
I, Phylippa, was right.