I’ve been told time and time again that if I don’t learn to be more agreeable, a man will never learn to love me – and I’ve found truth in this in every way possible.
I’ve been told by friend and foe that I would have better luck if I were more lithe or docile.
My girlfriends tell me to bite my tongue ‘til it bleeds, and to keep biting until it falls off. To sit on my hands while the men walk the walk.
I am told to go quieter, easier, to sit pretty and unprovoked.
That love will only rear it’s head if my own is bowed, and my eyes are closed.
That if I bring my mind into the light,
well, I’ll wind up alone.
Fuck it. Let me go loveless.
Let me go unnoticed or unwanted or whatever it is that I am when I speak undaunted.
I write this not from a place of political feminism,
but instead recognition.
Let me be clear that it was not regret that formed this letter of discontentment,
but that it was by the hand of resentment.
The narrative is always the same,
the overly emotional craze.
I am the girl who cried wolf, but only because there was one –
I learned that the crying was uninvited, the wolf was not.
I am the rising tide, the outspoken mind,
the unwelcome winds of warning.
So, I rise each morning, click my tongue in place.
My anger awakes.
But still we try to open the floor to the warriors afraid of the armed woman.
To understand why war was ever waged in the first place,
but fear is a funny and dangerous thing.
The swords are drawn,
and alas I’m beheaded again.
So a ghost it may be that you made out of me,
but know that silence came not when you killed me.
And that fear, you know not, until you’ve seen
The headless woman speak.