Being A Woman

If a tree does not bear fruit, or if the ground does not grow vegetables, if the clouds do not send rain to hydrate the earth, is there still worth in their existence?

The river flows directly from my hands and mouth — but the river never flows backwards.

I am not a Silent-At-Your-Desire type of woman. As in, “his peace.” Nor am I a woman that is fully healed just so she can be attentive to a man & all of his silent (or very loud) wounds at every hour on the hour.

I have yet to meet a man that tends to my wounds instead of telling me to go to therapy or that I am not ready for a relationship. But, each one has wanted me to abide by his rules, tend to his invisible wounds as he says he has none, or expresses his wounds and expects me to cater to them since, as a woman, I am a nurturer.

I must be wise, I must be strong, I must be positive, up-lifting, intelligent, beautiful, a provider — but, I must—not—feel.

I must not hurt.

I must not have any emotion other than what is fitting —for—him.

I am a woman. Born for the pleasures of men—for their eyes and every desire beyond those dense and empty holes in their heads. And if I refuse, if I get angry, if I get sad, if I SPEAK UP, then I am not a good woman, I am not deserving of love & I am meant to be alone forever.

And with that I say, this body is mine. This beauty is mine. This wisdom is mine. These hands that cook meals at whatever time of day or night that I want—are mine.

This knowledge, this art, this creativity, this strength, these wounds, these tears, this laughter and rage, this flow of love and light is MINE. I am my own — and no man can make me believe he is worth the exchange. Though, maybe one day, I’ll meet someone who will make it enjoyable for me to do life — with.