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?