To My Sisters


Words cutting and thrashing
I lie a victim to my mouth.
Forbidding me the intimacy of closeness,
Pushing me into greater distances of recluse.

Even quiet and reserved, I am not well.
I am not enough.
Willing myself to an unreal ideal,
Conforming to the mold of perfect for the imperfect.

Strong and determined, they call me out of my name.
They call me “difficult”.
Pushing for the unknown greatness I am told I have, I meet resistance.
Working beyond the grey sky where my bar has been laid, I receive less.

Yes, my words are cutting. They are even soft.
Yes, I am quiet. Some think I am loud.
Yes, I am strong. And still I succumb to my insecurities.
Yes, I am a woman.

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