You won’t like the world of control we live in,
Unless you hold it in your paternal palm.
Born new and pink and wrinkled and crying,
Knowing that this world wasn’t meant for me.
I walk a predetermined path,
Shoeless, over thistles and debris.
My being depends on his words.
My being decided by one whose prejudices spill,
Quick and ignorant like water through a dam,
Whose floodgates were never quite there.
Catcalls and know-it-alls line the streets
Yelling, what must be the truth
To a girl whose ears are still
Before words go in one ear, out the other,
They nestle in my brain and I make them a home
Because as a woman, making a home should be no problem,
I am watched through his microscope,
And he sees me cultivate, ensuring that I never grow enough
To prove that I was never
Created “in his image”.
Lies are his currency.
While we hear “equality”,
We still are met with 77 cents
To his dollar.
We are expected to serve him effortlessly
On a silver platter
Even during a time when
Women couldn’t serve their own country.
I am told that I am an empty Russian doll;
Hollow and unfulfilled,
Only until a man can fill me
With layered stacks of offspring
I reach elbow deep in the sink for a new dish,
My mind running faster than I’ve ever been allowed to run
For fear that I may ruin
My new dress
We are told to be naturally unnatural;
Thus we purge ourselves of what we were given: