i am tired of being a woman.
Tired of my mouth and my temperamental breasts
tired of ovaries with expiration dates
tired of all the shoes and all the expensive lotions.
tired of having to prove that you are, truly, one
tired of the proving, and approving, and improving.
tired of ageing and having to do it all with grace.
the battle to be stronger, smarter, more polished version.
(but, wait – be careful:
not too strong for that’s too manly
not too polished you’d break like glass.
not too smart, because – just quietly –
noone likes a woman with too much ambition).
there are men who sit at my table,
circled around a bowl i offer up.
when i speak its like driving on ice,
determined, unfaltering, with care and nervous precision.
at nights I feast on tiger balm and eye-drops
basking in the romantic glow of my screen.
your pay cheque clears, its double than mine,
and you laugh, your mouth full, while dining with your children.
I am tired of my lips, and hair and my thighs
tired of questions why I am still empty
tired of too much emotion, or showing not enough
I am tired, and i am tired
of being a woman.