I left my womanhood out to dry,
still dripping with the lifeblood
men assume we are cursed with.
But, you know,
we carry this world safe between our legs,
like we did all of history’s greatest men,
like we will any future great men,
only to watch sexism
pick apart equality like little girls
pick apart the taunts little boys throw their way,
deluding ourselves into thinking we are looking
for badly communicated affection
when maybe we are just looking
at well communicated cruelty.
So is it any wonder then that little girls
turn into big girls,
looking for tenderness,
lost somewhere between
the ring around her finger
and the ring around her eye?
But we can’t blame the men
for everything, ladies,
not this time.
For example:
can someone explain to me
the wave of apathy sweeping through this generation
as if inequality is the hottest new commodity?
Since when did objectification
come into fashion?
Maybe I’m only chasing ideals here
but I can’t imagine that
being any worse than chasing skirts.
You know, I just hope that the next time a man
undresses a woman with his eyes,
he sees the weight our collarbones still bear,
our breasts hanging heavy
with not only gravity
but male supremacy as well.
So take a good look inside a woman’s mouth,
any woman – a mother, a sister,
a daughter, a wife, a girlfriend,
the next time she is on her knees,
and tell me you don’t see the sun,
shining like women are the answer
to the world’s last love song.