To my scarlet letter strands, thank you for being the mane that can never be a rein allowing a man to guide me as he rides me in the wrong direction. Thank you for being the mane that slaps men in their red faces ashamed of the cat calls I confront. Bellowing out my siren call that guides seamen to their self-charted demise— a collision with the rocky tower they built. They cannot compete with the wave of a Red Sea. I sing to them I am not an animal for you to coo and woo I am not a doll for you to sway and play with I am not a girl, too weak to say no— but I was. To my ruby hooded cape thank you for being the snood the crude Bad Wolf can't tear off. Thank you, box 6.66, for being the transaction causing the chemical reaction selling my muted soul to myself. Now, a vibrant muse, I am my own rider saddle-less as I reign over you. To my crimson wife, thank you for bringing with you a chemical bond altering my dullness. Thank you for bringing with you the passion I always had for myself but never knew to show until now.