A Women's Place

A women's place is the kitchen.

Barefoot and pregnant

At her husbands beck and call

Bent over the bed, legs spread

She knows not the word no

For she lives to be on her knees

No.

No?

I am meant for more.

To be more.

I am more.

I am more than barefoot.

As I run a household like a the best naval admiral with tyrants and pirates for privates

As I build a business from the ground up while my family sleeps... I create, craft, and cultivate till my eyes burn and my hands feel swollen and clumsy.

As I fight the the society that tells me over and over that my looks, and my ability to give head are more important than lay inside my head and heart.

I am barefoot, bleeding from balancing on the razor edge, of walking on glass to be what everyone tells me to be.

When will I put on those boots that are made for not just for walking?

But the combat boots made to stomp, trample and crush?

I have been pregnant and more.

6 times in fact.

I have brought forth 4 healthy amazing children.

Let me rephrase that.

I have lost two children.

I have watched my children bleed from my body

Heard cold and callused nurses ask me what I expected them to do when I called for help.

Been told to get over myself after getting upset over seeing a Facebook post about being pregnant as a April fool's joke.

I have torn myself apart to bring life into this world

Sacrificed my body, mind, and sanity to do so.

And would do so again in a heartbeat.

But it was my choice.

My choice to carry them under my heart for 40 weeks.

My choice to give up my blood, body, mind and my very essence to create theirs.

My choice.

Not my husbands

Or my in laws

Or my own parents

Or some old white dudes in power.

Mine.

I have a husband.

He is the one who provides for me.

He is the one man I chose to bind myself to.

The one I will gladly bend over for... Bend backwards, forward, and onto my side too.

I will become a pretzel for him if I can

But only when I choose to.

My needs are not second to his

My desires are not lesser

My value lies not just between my legs or on my knees.

It is in the house being made a home

In being a support system and cheer squad for a man who is desperate for love and affirmation.

It is in a hot meal ready for him when he comes home because I enjoy his appetites

In a family made with love and kept in order

In my sacrifices for his gains.

I am more than a pretty face.

I am a veritable queen.

A damn domestic goddess.

And while I am not super women, I am a super mom.

I am not meant to only be in the kitchen. Though I have been beaten, broken, torn, shredded, cut, and roasted. I have also bloomed, been tempered and risen.

I do not belong in the kitchen, unless it is to bring the knives in which to shred the box that they try to keep me contained within.

I am so much more than they know.

I am a women. Unimaginably powerful, magical, and mysterious.

A creator of life, a work of art, a ode to all that is untamable fury and awe.

After all isn't that why we call everything from bombs, ships, hurricanes and every powerful, awe inducing and world destroying by a women's name?

For even the devil fears a women's rage- hell hath no fury like that of a women and all that jazz. So before you tell me to get back in my place just remember... I can destroy your world from anywhere including the kitchen. Just ask Eve.