This is for every woman whose hips intimidated men’s heads until her mind wasn’t heard and her heart was fully spent. For every woman who lived but chose to suicide commit. This is for the women who got the shitty end of the stick. For the women from the 50’s, and every decade before, and every decade after because we still haven’t cracked open equalities door.
Men mark feminism a dirty word while we’re still cleaning up generational traumas from shocks in the psyche ward. Because woman are crazy. Woman are bossy. Woman are e-mo-tion-al. They are housekeepers wearing wife-beaters unaware of how the t-shirt got its name. Servants and baby makers, you’re only good for one thing. One hole, two hole, three – if you include my scrunchie. I hear only girls who’ve been molested like ass play but that’s just another way to repress the goddess inside of me.
We are as diverse as patterns on butterfly wings, stronger than diamonds because we break and compress, break and compress, break and compress until we wither and explode, until we wither and explode, until we take our power back.
I told my first boyfriend he wouldn’t get head, not because I didn’t want to give it but because I could tell he expected it. Penis erect, I said “here, have a hand.” and he was off in his world until cumming brought him back down again. I am so tired of unrealistic expectations of who a man is to be. Cause it’s not just the women who suffer from this inequality. And no, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen, but while you can’t cry, I can’t eat.
Men hide emotions. Women try to hide entire bodies.
We purge who we are into porcelain until our sight goes blurry or skip meals until we’re thin enough to be considered worthy. We shave legs to be clean. We hide monthly swells with crossed legs and silent screams. We tell the man we love, it will be okay, not because we’re sure but because it always is eventually.
This is for the women who never got a chance to speak. Who copied a man’s poems for publishing while her journal collected dust. Who wrote thousands of lines explaining the difference between fucking and love, and life and drugs, who knew despair from the quilt she’d sewn and still finished with something beautiful, although the world would never know. Who fancied college but had two babies instead, and then raised them by herself while the man got to live. Who never spoke up after her temple was invaded, instead swallowed the shame until her body she hated.
For the women hurting, here and across the world. The one protecting her babies from militant soldiers. The one cradling her child as they both die of something we long ago cured in the first world. For the women carrying water, walking eight miles, every day, back and forth because the closest clean water is that far away.
But women are crazy. Woean are snakes. That Eve ate the apple, started all the mistakes. Maybe Adam was the first asshole, did you ever look at it that way? Or maybe that’s just a story we tell so we don’t ask real questions. Like whether heaven and hell are destinations or the split divorce of one mind. The bipolar high wire our spirits balance through time. This is for the women who fell when there was no net. And for the ones who jumped because it wasn’t worth it.
This is for the women, fighting every day to be more than ass and titties, ass, ass, and titties. Four round pockets of fat in flesh you want to hold onto, you want to hold onto something that will heal you – Ass and titties may look pretty but they aren’t the one to mold you. This is for your mamma.
This one is for me. Every woman is a county, every woman is a continent, every woman is an ocean, every woman is a world, every woman is a galaxy all her own. This is for the women who didn’t know, and this is for the women who knew, but were given away as dowry. This is for you, women. You, woman. You, woman.
Submitted to ArtParasites by Conner Carey