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
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