Women Do Not Roar
I know their thoughts are in there
Compressed by the anxious need to be loved
In a way they are too blinded to love themselves
Visions of their strength thieved from their bassinets
The hood of the cradle concealing their shrieks
Pleas which their fathers assumed to be joyous giggles of infancy
Ones men now assume to be irrelevant outbursts
Little do they know She cries out of grief
Her self-confidence slaughtered in front of her small eyes
The first death she sees upon her exit from mother's womb
The safe place Her mother arranged for her for as long as nature permitted
Aware when she bloomed, her delicate flower would lose petals along the way
Mother was all stem these days
And her baby girl was indeed raised to be delicate
Alas, delicate things break when they wrestle around
Or get stained when exposed to food
So she acts as a figurine rather than a human being
Careful not to tilt or chew too often
The female bends and twists on the inside
Contemplates with inspiring dedication
Roams the realm of her mind for passion and rawness
Yet when a man catches her eye
Or more so pulls it out maliciously
Feigning ignorance yet aware of his strength over her
She dares no longer to roam
But rather dares herself to keep from truths
Days when she didn't want to paint her cheeks with artificial hues
Or dismiss her freckles as mere indications of unclear flesh
But worked at perfecting the art she knew not was art
Because nobody advertised it as an exhibit worth admiring
Nights when she felt uncomfortable with the skin she flaunts
Yet bared her abdomen and stuffed down her guts
An instinctual pulling, forming knots that tangle her morality
She wonders in a hushed tone
If all women
Reveal even if they want to Keep
Give even when they want to Take
Dismiss ignorance and offense from a man's mouth
Because, come on, he was just joking
Or he's too privileged to understand
Then crunch their knuckles and dig their nails for relief from anguish
But she was not a woman
She was a girl
Her mother's delicate flower that knew not how to keep herself growing
If it weren't for the rays of the sun
The rays of His Son
Or was it His?
They all begin to look the same when they shine so brightly
These men are so used to the light they could never go blind
Unable to sense their warmth and vitality visually
Did the men not lie in the same bassinet?
They did not
They did not dare to squeal from pain
Because they were not brutally being chipped at
Scrutinized for their ability to adapt to breaking
And if the men did gasp for solace in the air
Too consumed by weak breaths of sorrow
They became boys
But he was not a boy
He was a man
Men cannot be cowardly
To be cowardly is to be feminine
To cry is an action of displeasure
Synonymous with being a girl
To be feminine is to be less
So, with the power of what society believes to be a man
Bubbling within the minds of our women
They subdue their power and pass it along to their Sun
Who lets them shine and grow
And the suns' flowers soak up the tears of the earth
But sometimes the pressure of the heat is too much for the Sun
And it longs for a drop of relief
So, with the sorrow of what society deems to be a girl
Harboring within the souls of our boys
They suffocate the power of intimacy under the power of status
And it is up to those who benefit from blending in
To refuse and put a stop to this suffocation
However, can one truly separate from something so blended?
