The raw emotions of a woman Read Online Free PDF Page B

else’s hope
    I am caught in a dream
I can’t seem to forget from last night. Caught in the memory of
another face, eyes and love, human touch as I travel along the
seams of human companionship. Laughing about the way my name sounds
on a French Man’s lips who would lie about what he ate for
breakfast if it would make a woman stay longer, inside his
uncomfortable life that fits smugly as a facial expression towards
the easily manipulated.
    And we all want to be better, painting our
walls white in hope that someone will graffiti our brain with
better thoughts, ideals like color pencil flowers, like power trips
and authority issues, dressed up as women and men, dressed up as
love instead of babble.
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    Married women
    The married women all talk about problems as if a
political agenda or a topic change or a painful hurt could all be
washed away by being submissive to a man. “No need to know
reality,” they tell themselves while swooning to human interest
pieces and cats and dogs, putting on makeup in metal tinted
mirrors. “All I need to know is that I have a husband who shelters
me. All I need to know is whose authority to take seriously. So we
can all get along, and not be petty or argue about things that
don’t really matter, because women never really fight about
anything important. Let’s just look at life through the same eye,
where all my heavy thoughts and deepest fears vanish. I can claim I
am good because myself-esteem goes through him first. And I force
everyone to get along because their voices all step on
mine.”
    And woman among woman act like this limited
understanding of life is necessary as the unruly emotions have
their way with us behind closed doors, inside the lines in a closed
fist and a broken heart, next to the shattered glass of strangers
seeking approval. “Can’t we all be good enough for that one
husband,” all the women scream, creating a mold from roses, jewelry
and jealousy. And the women on the inside look out at them, knowing
them all by name, she had coffee with each one discussing her
wedding dress, and she says causally as if her heart is not held on
a string balancing on an edge, “only the lucky ones marry.” And
slowly her eyes turn into snakes and her heart into a
child.
    “I couldn’t make it in the world,” she whispers
as an apology or a confession to those who look like friends, “I
needed someone else’s heart.” And we all believe her, because why
would she lie?
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    Compliance
    “ Have sex with me,” cry the angry voices of women,
trying to find a heart inside their legs. “Toy with me, make me
believe in love again,” they scream at heaven for letting them fall
so far from the clouds. “Make me believe in myself again,” they say
worriedly as now their lives have become a broken down storyline
about an incident that no one else can talk about. And inside the
people who believe in people, inside the lives that seem so far
away, is a dance of I told you so on white walls without shadows,
without vulnerability in a game of intension, an underlining sense
of obsession, a let me bend over backwards so a man can hold all my
cards game, that we play to see who can win, who can feel the most
belittled in a fight to be small, to have someone come in and take
away the burden of looking through life in a cracked perception,
which alienates people with words that sound like such harmless
observations at night but become mountains in the day, words of
different points of view, different values, words that create faces
of data on mannequins in store windows wearing orange.
    But we all want to buy the same outfit, pretend
that self-abandonment is better than preservation, because it will
protect you from the judgment, it will protect you from the past
and pain. And we curl up inside, thinking a penis and a brain are
the same as solid ground, and we wait like soldiers to hear a
whisper in the wind of foot prints, so that we can say when the
negativity of never being