Womanhood

Because I am a woman, I am expected to be stifled

by my body, to be limited in worth by the marks of age on my skin,

and whatever else they do not believe is beautiful,

or enough of something to provide “value”.

And it isn’t really value they’re after,

it’s submission and compliance

disguised as respect.

What if I don’t want a seat at your table?

Where I must wait my turn to speak

like a good little girl, like a child in a classroom

with hand raised and arm achingly tired.

I open my mouth to speak and a chorus chimes.

“That’s nice”, they say.

I want to rock their boat with violent waves,

lapping relentlessly against the bow, dangerous

and impossible to maneuver through.

I want to rage, but then

I am a bitch, I am out of place, I do not know when

to shut my mouth.

Apparently.

Because I am a woman, I must not

know my own body, must resist

wielding my divine feminine power

the way I want to.

Expectation says I exist for men,

for their wandering eyes and errant hands.

And I say no.