I’m a Woman But It’s Not to Say There’s Nothing in Me
I don’t understand why you insist that I like the same football team as you.
I don’t know why you say that I ought to like a certain politician just because you like him.
I would appreciate it if you stopped giving me shocked looks when you ask me how my weekends were and my answers include going out with relatives giving them farewell parties after spending fun and exciting holidays with me and my family, or reading classic American novels, doing workouts, writing deeply emotional and thought-provoking poetry and prose, doing part-time work to further improve myself and attending poetry readings and other group events arranged by the city or by private businesses.
There shouldn’t be any surprise on your face upon discovering that I have strong opinions and a high level of curiosity for learning new things.
Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean that my life should only be for giving birth to children and ending with living for such children.
I don’t know what I can do to get it into your head that I have a resume full of work experience and I hope to continue to expand on my professional experience.
I don’t know what more I can do to make myself clear about wanting to travel even more than I already have and immerse myself in even more communities.
I may be a woman but I have dreams of finally earning a higher paid job and interest in climbing up the socioeconomic ladder in order to make certain that my mother and brother are secure.
Why do you always tell me that you know what’s best for me just because you are a man?
You can never know what it’s like to have a body of a woman so what makes you think that you know the mind of a woman? You don’t know what women think about and you choose to have a shallow view of them anyway.
I live my life doing the things that I hope will help improve me or that I love and you still decide not to recognize what I do, living in denial, convincing yourself that your illusion of me is right.
No matter how loud I shout about not liking chicken, you still offer me a chicken drumstick to eat.
I have yelled at you about not wanting to take ballroom dancing lessons yet you say that it’s exactly what I like to do.
You only ever buy clothes that I don’t see myself wearing and adamantly keep your own image of me, failing to see the amount of resentment I’ve built up over time.
Why do you think that women exist just for men to control what they think is ‘best’ for them?
Why are you reluctant to see me use my own mind as I see fit?
May I ask you why you refuse to know me yet you tell me that you love me?
Do you really love me or just an illusion of me?