I think I had a thought once,
not sure where it went

I think I had a choice,
before their automatic consent

I think I had a body,
until it was covered under a glass ceiling of intersectionality,
disguised as empowerment & healing

I think I had ambitions,
but I wasn't allowed to share them f r e e l y

I think I had a story,
which included originality, not mass produced 'bots

I think I think a lot,
it's okay though, only when it helps with the plot

I think I had a life,
built on standards of equality, for all to prevail

I think I was The Foreman,
who settled on being the female

If I had been a boy, maybe they would have liked me.
Maybe I would have been accepted—respected, even.
But I was born a girl.
And somehow, my blonde hair, my glowing skin, my warm smile,
and the kindness in my heart became reasons for ridicule.
They call it attention, but it feels like harassment.
They call it teasing, but it feels like abuse.

Sometimes, I wonder…
Was I born wrong?
Or is the world just wrong for making us feel this way?!

There once was a man from Tyrone
Who spent all his time all alone:
     It got on his nerves,
     And he wanted some curves,
So he Frankensteined a female clone.

When I was a girl
I thought I could be anything I wanted
I didn’t realize I would grow up
To be a woman
That I was forever ‘and her’
Instead of them
That my father loved me
As an exception
And I would have to witness my sisters
Wither away in happiness
I found out that I was not the ‘public’
In public transportation
That I needed to switch my grocery run times
Every now and then
Discovered the places where a hat
Could be the best weapon
On Sundays, I dress up and buy pretty roses for my table
To keep from remembering that
If someone wanted
There was nothing I could do to stop them

A hero to no one except myself
Just there to fill up space in a crowded room
Told that the only things I want are fame and wealth

A Ticking Bomb ignited from the start
But neither I nor you know when I'll blow
And all your comfort will be ripped apart

I want everyone, but wanted by none
I'm just an option, never the choice
I'm just a second daughter, when he probably wanted a son

I'm carrying bombs in each of my 20 hands
And expected to blow them all out in a minute
People believe I'm just someone who can count all the sands

When people are partnered up with me
I hear a groan, a sigh, a rejection
But this is not who I am, just who you think me to be

When I look into a mirror, now dusty and haunted
I don't see a ticking bomb like everyone else
Just a girl who wanted to be wanted

Oh mother, your rage is filling me
And the rage of all the woman before you
And the woman with you
Wanting me to fight in each war
In which we get injustly treated over and over

For centuries the feelings are crying
Begging to fight for every woman
While each and every season
The lives of woman worsen

Oh mother, your exhaustin is filling me
And the ones of all the woman before you
And the woman with you
Begging me to stop
For centuries they are fighting
"I can't fight anymore"
They say before each and every war

when you are a woman
you bleed the burden of being one
literally within every month
and metaphorically every single day
you polish the plates clean
you cook the cake delectable
you plan the garden to grow plants
you figure out your figures
you beg to be believed
you serve to be esteemed
you scream to be heard
to be seen, to be listened,
to speak, to be free
you consume the rage given
passed and inherited
genetically and immanently
you are born
yet you give birth too
being a woman is a revolution