We grew up
with paper cups,
promises leaking out the sides from too much sun.
Then mom cried
when we got the carpet wet
becuase a woman’s work is never done.
Daughters cry back,
said we were sorry
as daddies scoop us up,
kiss our soft forehead and say:
It’s okay little girl.
I love you.
A girls’ peace of mind leaves the day her fist learns to fit down her throat
to purge away the parts that make her a woman.
It becomes a woman’s work
to find her reflection in broken mirror depictions of what a woman should be,
what they see
It’s women’s work
to defend our choices turned black and blue,
saving our lives at the price of a person
Pretending everything’s okay when he asks
because it’s uncomfortable to cry in the arms
of a man that is not
Our grown bodies
tied to a tide of frustration
that waves red twelve times in a year that we count in seconds,
waiting for the moment that someone might not be afraid of this cycle…
Might not think it’s strange that a woman can bleed for five days and live to become
No longer a slave
to her ambition
because a mother’s work is never done,
and a woman’s just a girl
that believed she had the power to make a choice.
will be praised for her sacrifices and shunned for her success until she is broken.
will destroy her self-esteem and pick it up with strong arms that project from his body.
will replace the woman with more girls inside her belly.
That’s a woman’s work:
To deny the struggle of sisters and daughters, mothers and women.
To chain the choice and be anything other than
To teach young girls to believe in their dreams
then clip those white wings with sharp scissors.
is now part of this world.
So we pray
and we pray
will some day
than women’s work.