They tell me to be quiet.
Quiet enough my presence doesn’t make a ruckus.
Small enough that my presence is untouched.
Shrinking into spaces that they wish I was forgot in.
They tell me I speak too loudly.
Take up too much space in the room when I make a proclamation.
My dad was the first man to teach me women shouldn’t talk back.
With every slap to the face my voice grew deeper.
My brother said if I didn’t put myself in a corner, they would do it for me.
With every push I learned to stand my ground.
My mom told me that my slick tongue made me unbearable to men.
So, it grew sharper to lash at those who spite my freedom.
Legs crossed, dressed pressed, and hair slick back in a pony.
Sit pretty but not enough to leave them tempted.
The only wise thing I ever learned from my parents was to carry a key in my hand.
Check your car before getting in.
Walk at night only in company.
Carry your phone, but don’t talk on it.
I always wondered how the world has groomed woman but never refined their men.
Never directed my brother that no meant boundaries.
Never spoke of respect as if its given and not earned.
Never addressed that a woman was object of desire but not possession.
Speak up woman, but not louder than those men around you.
Assert yourself but never over the men.
Be strong, firm but mend as I need you to when I need you to.
If I was to vocal, I was a ***** & if I was so quiet, I was a door mat.
If I was too conservative, I was a ***** and if I was to provocative, I was a *****.
If I was to a leader, I was bossy and if I followed, I lacked a backbone.
I wondered what strength I had in being all of that at once.
How I could be the ****** and the maker.
This was the closest to god I ever felt.
& it makes me wonder if god was a woman too.