There is no such thing as
"Strong women."
There are only women who hide
And women who hide better.
Women who shelter their fears
In the attics of their minds,
And women who carry them
In their back pockets;
Women who hum little songs to themselves
While wolves wait at their feet,
And women who dance with the beasts.
Women who cry quietly
In bed next to your
Snoring mass,
And women who turn their heartbreak
Into art and music and poems
That rip at the hearts
Of those who hurt her.

The woman you knew---
The woman you loved
Once upon a time---
Hides better.
Her screaming nightmares
About the man that ruined her---
His hands revisiting her innocence;
Night after night,
Waking to underwear
Stained from the dirt on his hands---
Are transformed into drive.
Drive to create, to love,
To touch, to live.
This woman you knew
Hides better.

But strength ebbs,
Like the tide,
The sadness sweeps into the mind
With the rising moon.
But the strong woman,
She doesn't break;
Not until she is tucked away
Into her empty hope chest
Next to the dusty photos
Of lost friends and lovers
And the strings of pearls
Formed from silver tears
Of mothers and grandmothers.
Only then is she weak.
Only then does she allow
The darkness to enclose her,
Like a blanket of familiar discomfort.

What one must realize is that
Passion is not a constant.
Every woman you have ever admired,
Every woman you looked up to,
Every woman you worked beside,
Every woman you passed by,
Falls apart in private.
The body must have a rest from strength,
Let vulnerability prevail.