He said I was angry for being made woman. I laughed and brushed it off.
He said I found flaw in the design, that I feared I’d never be more than product of a curse.
A mother, a maid. The one to fetch the groceries. Emotional, flighty. Expected to be poised.
If opinionated, crazy. If bold, defiant. If driven, a bitch. Bossy. Difficult.
He said I was angry I’d been set up for less. Disappointed. Defeated.
But, here I am woman. Small hands, delicate ankles. Soft curves and sharp corners.
I am the cradle of life, a fountain of feeling. My hips made for carrying future, my hands for lifting heads to the sun.
In a world lacking empathy, I am overrun. A stranger’s pain is my own.
My mind is a maze, a system of channels carrying fresh streams of thought.
I think and I mull. Hypothesize and test. Always dreaming. Always creating.
Not woman by flaw or by curse. Woman by design, by choice, by gift.
Whatever burden of being made woman that has been laid at my feet is not mine to carry.
So, I will be brazen and be fully me. Woman without shame, without fear and regret.
You are a force, woman, as wind to a flame. You are not crazy, not a bitch, not to simply be seen and not heard.
And if in the end, all we ever are is woman, fully woman, the world will be better for it.