i’m not your kid. i’m not your baby. i’m not your puppet. and i don’t need you to save me.
so if they’ll say what they will, then i’ll take it all in. watch, as my perfect locks catch fire, and my fists turn bloody. i’ll let you win.
let it rot, and fester, melting into my skin. let the barbed wire encase me, and the ceiling fan brainwash me into complacency.
listen. just a bit. when late at night, it calls to me.
don’t you want to settle down? don’t you want to have a family?
it’s time you got your act together, young lady.
Gender roles infuriate me.
I mean, that’s probably pretty obvious from the feminist-rant-y nature of this poem–and the other one I posted today, which has a bit of a different angle, but I wanted to delve a bit deeper into that.
To be honest, I’m in a fairly lucky position. I haven’t ever had to deal with catcalling so far, and for the most part haven’t had to deal with too many obvious aggressions related to my gender.
However, that doesn’t mean I haven’t felt the effects of misogyny in much subtler ways. Like the constant assumption that my whole life revolves around meeting a guy, getting married, having kids, and settling down. And the constant dismissal from society as a whole, of pretty much everything I like as a young girl, because whatever it is it must be Inherently Bad, because as a young girl I am Inherently Laughable and Stupid. How my whole life, I’ve had it instilled in me that no matter what, I will never be safe–even in my own body. Some of it is internalized stuff I inflict upon myself, and some of it is external. And as small as those things are, they fucking suck.
In some way or other, I think it’s a part of how my workaholic tendencies developed. Because from a really young age, it’s felt like the world is only going to let me succeed in it if I work so hard it’s forced to take me seriously. And yeah, sure, as a kid I can want to do all these great things. But in the end, all that matters is getting married to a rich guy, buying a nice house, and having kids, because if you don’t have children What Is The Point, and if I actually dare build something for myself without a man’s assistance I’m automatically a cutthroat, miserable person.
And sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if no matter how hard I try, it’ll ever be enough. I don’t know. Maybe a lot of it is just my depression/anxiety brain.
But either way, it’s something I’ve been thinking about of late.
Lots of love,