A million mirages,
a million ways to look okay,
when life looks bleak,
a million smiles,
that cost too much to keep,
when you close the door,
and are alone,
sliding to the floor,
with your heart in your throat,
your eyes a waterfall.
It can be lonely,
being a lady.
We are strong, but soft,
dainty, but depended on.
The whole world leans on us,
leers at us,
locks us up,
because free women are a fantasy,
and to be a woman is a madness,
confused,
contained,
in the rules we are set.
In our springtime,
we are sweet,
melded into our madness,
run ragged until we are rigid,
expectations flow like wayward strands of hair,
in rare moments that we forget,
and just run.
When winter comes,
free but invisible,
we will be our own broken dreams,
eyes closed,
wondering how far back we can go,
wondering how to reclaim ourselves,
from the life we were assigned.
It can be lonely.
It can be maddening.
It can be frightening.
It can be overwhelming.
It can be different,
if we choose it.
If we break the rules,
run,
jump,
scream,
say it’s okay not to smile,
say it’s okay to let the world stand on itself,
say to your sister,
that you will stand for her too.
