Women were created to do everything a man can’t do
I know they meant well
I know it was some strange encouragement
but it always sounded
like the words of a sad housewife
desperate to feel purpose
to feel content
in the space she was allowed to fill
I feel his rib
like a thorn
I feel it like the words of my mother
sharp pressure
to perform
in a shape I am wholly unsuited for
Ah, to be a mother
But to be a woman
to be
to have every possibility laid out before you
in such an age and place
where no one will tie me to the stake
and still
in the words of my mother
and the words of discontent housewives
I am here
I was made
to fill his void
As if a man’s emptiness
was not his own responsibility to fill
As If I have no empty spaces
of my own
As if every man is still walking around
without a fucking rib
Women were created to do everything a man can’t do
like dishes
like laundry
Like waking silent in the night
to feed the child
I was created to birth
but created with him
feeding her with bottles
not breasts
somehow, with hands
more capable of holding bottles
than his
It must be his missing rib
Women were created to do everything a man can’t do
The words of my mother
disdainful in my messy kitchen
that my husband sometimes cleans
overlooking her grandchildren
who are sometimes fed
and changed
and bathed
and dressed
by their father
So that I may fill my own void
and do the things I was created to do
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