Why?

Why does this happen,
why does this happen to our sisters,
why do we stand on pedestals,
so big and so strong and
look down at our sisters,
and tell them to be quiet,
your voice is too loud
you are too big,
you are too strong,
be meek and weak,
it’s easier and more digestible.

Why do we do this,
why do we do this to our sisters ,
why do we tell them to sit down
when they want to stand,
why do they we tell them to be still
when they want to move,
why do we hurt them
then tell them we’ll pray for them,
fixing fresh wounds with false intentions
and inaction,
why do we abuse their innocence
and their youth
and their joy.

Sisters,
why don’t we stand for our sisters,
why don’t we champion them,
and hold them in our hands,
and say I know that you are here,
I know that you are real,
and I hear you.
I see your pain is real,
and it is beautiful,
because you are living
and uncovering the depths of
injustice and fragility,
egos of age and gender,
power plays of authority and religion.
You notice, you feel,
you see the outer edge of what was,
what is, and what will be.
And you can’t wait for things to be better,
because you know that we can be better.
Why do we punish you for expecting
for humanity.

Sisters,
why don’t we fight for our sisters
and celebrate them when they survive,
when they proceed, progress,
when they come out of the fires,
scarred and bruised,
traumatized and beaten,
but still alive.
Why don’t we celebrate them
and welcome them with open arms,
you’ve made it, you’re alive,
this life is hard, and this world
has been crafted to keep us down,
but you’re here, rising.

Strength and love on fire,
instead of weighing each other
down with words that crawl out
of our own insecurities, our fears,
and inadequacies.
Gossip, who is he,
with those side-swept hairs
and twinkly eyes that
we can hurl spikes and knives
and bludgeon each other
with blaming.

Who are you, Brothers
that you let your sisters go through
what they go through.
Who are you, brother,
that you let your brothers do that to them
when you see manipulation from high places,
what do you do,
what do you do,
when you see it all,
when you hear it all,
when you know what’s going on,
why do you tell them to be quiet,
and why do you tell them
that it’s just the way things are
and that’s just the way things will always be,
when you know that it’s wrong.
You know it, you feel the icky
discomfort of something amiss.

Why do we tell her that she’s not real,
that the things she wants to be,
the things that she encompasses,
the things that she sees, hears and breeds
within her own soul, garden,
that they’re not real,
that she’s not real.
But then we ask her to be perfect,
to be every contradiction
and insane concoction of
complex and textured,
yet simple and submissive,
dainty yet bold,
natural yet supernatural.
And then expect her to be confident,
unbridled by societal pressure,
unshaken by judgement,
completely unique yet only
enough to be interesting,
don’t wrinkle the waters.

Why do we do this to her
and then ask her for her help,
ask her for her service,
ask her to serve,
and ask her to be a sister
and a mother
and an ally for every other,
when we have asked her to be nothing,
when we have told her that she is nothing.

Why do we do this,
why.

Why do we let this go on,
when we know that we can make it stop,
why do we purpose the pain
and instigate the insecurities
that steal away in the daylight.

Why do we armor ourselves
with shame in silence.
Why.

Dedicated to a specific sister.
You are fierce and brilliant in all ways.
Your pain means that you will right wrongs in the world.
You will bring change. You will open eyes.