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Maria Duynisveld Jan 2019
I hear a lot of talk these days,
about how we need to teach girls
to follow their dreams.
We need to tell them
that they can study STEM,
or write a book,
or run the United States of America.
That sheerly from the force of their will
they can rise above being “merely a girl,”
and once all the cabinets are filled,
the next gen of chicks will give it a whirl -

Well, I say no.
We need to teach girls to never fall in love.

We need to warn girls about reckless boys,
the ones with pretty hair and gemstone eyes,
because those are the boys who are best at lies and
when they build you up
they tripwire every level
so that they can destroy the place
on the way out.

We need to tell girls that they can go far,
but not if they’re seduced by some **** with a car.
Girls need to learn that when boys say, “forever,”
it means “I want you right now, but that will fade to never.”
And if we fed every girl the facts
like he’ll feed her his lines,
maybe she’ll listen to the world
and believe her paranoia this time -

No, girls should never, ever fall in love.

Girls should never fall in love
because he’ll tell her that she’s a cut above,
he’ll spin tales of a future and where they’ll be,
but when she
is dependent,
that *******,
he won’t even have the *****
to call it like it is -
He’ll say something like “a break”
and let the “up” be hers, not his,
and he’ll say, “don’t make me feel guilty,”
and she’ll realize
this was how it was all along,
his comfort over hers.

We must teach these girls to never fall in love.

Don’t you see that when reckless boys
with pretty hair and gemstone eyes
write a girl a poem and hold her while she cries
she’s going to begin to believe that he cares,
so when she so much as dares
to say she loves him too,
he won’t have to chase and he’ll look for someone new -

No, we must make girls be like the reckless boys
with pretty hair and gemstone eyes,
because boys like those
never really fall in love.
Maria Duynisveld Nov 2018
I have this dream
of an impossible path,
one that I know
I won't walk with you.
Indulge me, I plead,
just one wistful wander
before the gates lock
and won't let us through.

You see, we're already
tracing that line on the map,
and it's making me dread
what's to come.
For that map's only paper,
yes, the map has an edge,
and any step now,
I'll feel us plunge.

The dream, well it's simple,
chronologically planned,
but doomed,
as dreams often are.
Realism, I suppose,
begs the question of not
how high I climb,
but of if I fall far.

— The End —