My Fuel
I weeded out so much trash from my life.
All I have left is my anger.
An anger so deep that it has kept me alive for four years.
Or even longer.
I remember all the faces that looked down on me.
The hatred, the disgust, just because I refused to be less than I am.
Just because I was born a fuckin’ woman, I always had to make myself smaller than I am.
Be kind.
Be patient.
(FUCK OFF.)
Don’t be too strict with men, they are just men. (Aren’t they fuckin’ adult human beings?)
Don’t be angry.
Don’t sit with your legs spread because what will they think?
Carry everyone’s emotional burden.
Because
YOU ARE A WOMAN.
Well.
EVERYBODY CAN FUCK OFF.
Thirty-two years of anger.
Anger from standing against this fuckin’ world that always wanted to tell me how big and great I was allowed to be.
They even wanted to tell me what I could create. What I could read.
Cook.
Give birth.
Stay home.
Your family is on your shoulders.
FUCK OFF.
Thirty-two years of anger.
And there is only one type of person worse than fuckin’ insecure men.
The insecure women who lick the fuckin’ boots of patriarchy as if it were the purpose of their useless lives.
They are among the most vicious keepers of this fuckin’ patriarchy: the cowardly women who tell others how to dress, how to make themselves smaller, how to carry all the burdens of life.
Instead of holding men accountable for their shit.
In my fuckin’ life, more men have believed in me than women.
Almost always, it was women who wanted to make me smaller than I am.
Because I am not a coward. I stand up for myself. I don’t believe that any little girl should accept guys pulling her hair because “they like her.”
So it is time to talk about the women who keep patriarchy alive.
No one has ever looked at me with greater disgust than women who gave themselves up for their men.
Men only underestimated me, laughed at me until I showed them what I was capable of.
But women…
They were like snakes, smiling to my face and laughing behind my back, spreading lies, telling everyone what trash I am.
Because I was brave enough to be myself.
Thirty-two years of anger at being born a woman.
At having to suffer because of cowardly women who licked the boots of useless men.
A woman is patient.
A woman is nice.
A woman is modest.
And never angry.
And not high-maintenance.
Independent enough to pay her half on a date,
but not independent enough to open a fuckin’ jar, so men can feel like they are somebody.
She is polite.
She is resilient.
But at the same time, soft.
Never taking up too much space in a fuckin’ room.
Sorry, motherfuckers.
I am myself.
And I will climb to the top of this fuckin’ world.
Because no one will ever tell me again how great I am allowed to be.
I will never make myself smaller just to make somebody else comfortable again.
Enough.
I remember all the hatred, all the disgust, all the disbelief, all your fuckin’ words.
Bitches, you can just fuck off.