Tag: Creative Writing

Luckily for me, and my lackadaisical little woman brain,
there will always be men, making sweeping statements on my behalf.
Battering down my kitchen door to bellow definitions and debating with shadows,
while I give a bemused, indifferent glance,
glazing over as the pasta boils over, and I pray for some peace and quiet.

Luckily for me,
the lads are on the case.
They are standing up for “their women”,
of which I am apparently one,
despite being rather certain that I retained ownership of myself.
Those same lads who can’t locate key parts of a woman are here to holler about what a woman is,
to a woman,
who knows where everything is,
and knows what everything is,
but they’re using their serious, sincere voices,
tutting at me, though I haven’t said a word,
so I think this is something they’d like my attention for.

I just… don’t care.
I have so much more to do.
I don’t have time to get into a row with an uninvited guest,
or time to pander to his need to feel important.
I’ve got pasta that needs cooking,
a movie that needs watching,
and he’s just… not that interesting.

Where were these men, with all their concerns and condescending chat when I needed them?
Why do they look away in embarrassment when their feral friends follow me down the street?
Why do they waste my time, waxing lyrical about how “sorry” they are for their gender instead of sorting out their siblings?
Why, after centuries of patriarchy have they decided that they’d like to “save” me?
Why do they assume that they are capable of saving me?

What is a man?
Beyond late, boring and surplus to requirements?
Completely incapable,
completely intolerable.
Loud for the sake of being loud,
and just eye roll inducingly dull.

Is THIS your king?
A man in my Twitter mentions,
at the big age of 45,
diving into arguments with an actual woman about who she is, and why he’s the authority on it?
My dude,
don’t do this to yourself.

Anyway, back to me.
In case you wondered,
I was in the kitchen of my own volition,
peacefully cooking my pasta,
dreaming of dinner and a movie,
alone,
but a man has deemed himself ever so important,
despite having no place in my palace of solitude.
Some dude has something to say,
not something to ask,
but something to say.
He will scream something that he phrases as a question,
but it is really a statement.

He asks,
“What is a woman?”
but what he means is,
“I don’t like how women have handled this conversation, so it’s time that they listened to me.”

“What is a woman?” He pecks the question into the air like a furious, fevered bird.

“What is a woman?” He wants an answer, but he only wants it from his own mouth, so shut up and let him FINALLY have a chance to talk.

“What is a woman?” SHUT YOUR VAGINA AND LISTEN TO HIM BITCH.

A woman is someone that men talk at, not to.
A woman is someone that men call incapable after incapacitating her.
A woman is something that men want to protect from everyone but themselves.

A woman is not the concern of a man.