How I Hate (Love) Being a Woman

Illustration: Glaciane Kelly Lacerna

As the moon paints

itself in scarlet hue,

I am reminded

of my fate 

that sits atop

my deepest scars…

I hate being a woman.

I hate my calloused hands;

the palm of labor with no respite—

a vessel and a tool;

I am a mere device.

In mornings I scrub the loo;

I knead the dough.

At night I dance to serve

and please the sire;

so when the dawn comes,

my womb will bear a life

to cradle the fruit

of the wicked knife.

I hate being a woman.

I hate how I’m woven

from my father’s

expectations,

doomed to be a

victim of scrutiny

in a court

of paradoxes,

so that I would

never be 

too loud nor too quiet,

too strong nor too weak,

too ambitious nor too modest.

I hate being a woman.

I hate how they trapped me in a

glass; a delicate flower, so

fickle and fragile—

admired and picked,

displayed and desired,

but never then grew.

And when I no longer bloom

of youth and innocence,

the glass will be shattered 

and bleed withered dreams

that once blossomed

hope.  

I hate being a woman.

I hate how my mother

protected me from the

battlefield, only to be

bathe in blood

the moment I was

born—as if I am 

destined to shoulder

the pain

and misfortune 

of simply

being a

woman.

I hate being a woman.

I hate it.

But as the birds hum their

song in front of Helios,

I am reminded by

the simple joys of getting

ready for an occasion;

the way my hair turns into gold

beneath the radiance of the sun

even the gleam of the moon

as well as its stars.

The glitters scattered

all over the floor,

feeling the soft fabric

of the dress I wear

underneath the roughness

of my palms,

and to color hues

on my face—

with a gentle kiss from

Aphrodite.

To flaunt my beauty

for no one,

but for myself.

I love being a vanity of art;

how a blank canvas

can be brought to life

by a simple stroke

of all of my indelible scars

and glorious triumphs.

To sway to the beat

and dance to the music

wherever my feet

shall take me,

as I scream full of felicity;

and experience joy loudly.

To sing of melodious tunes

that are soft and honeyed,

or sharp and thunderous—

as I pour my heart out

into the ocean,

for creativity can be

a semblance of

freedom for women.

I love my caring nature,

a touch so gentle

made to aid those

who may be in need—

to uplift the spirits

of those riddled

with meekness and diffidence

through sweet nothings,

a soft chant of praises

of their glamour and elegance

just like a dazzling soirée.

Yet my voice can be loud,

mimicking a roaring wave

ferocious and protective;

an unspoken rule

to look after fellow ladies,

to be of comfort

that transcends bounds

and a sense of security

that shall never be

trivialized.

I love that I am blessed

with a sharp mind,

possessing unmatched wisdom,

a soul that is pure

just as the driven snow

that captures the beauty in life.

A hand crafted talent

through a burst of incandescence,

and a burning flame of ambition

tenacious, as I excel

in varying fields.

Oh, how I love being a woman;

for I am a mosaic

of every woman

I have ever met,

known, and

loved.

Writers: Valerie Acupado, Denise Nicole Bate Paulino