Breathing.

Looking down.

Holding my tongue.

You would think

that would make a woman safe from criticism.

It doesn’t.

Still breathing.

Making eye contact.

Speaking my mind.

I have become an emotional torture

for those around.

At least I can speak my truths now.

When I’m silent,

I’m unendurable for having no opinion.

When I’m not,

I’m too dogmatic

and as emotional as a woman could get.

When I dress up,

I’m asking for the attention all around

as I’m promiscuous.

When I don’t,

I’m lazy and unclean,

yet still receiving shouts I’d rather not.

Even if I’m surrounded by my closest male friends,

they will not blink twice to taunt and judge me

as if my existence

is only just an amusement.

It says enough

that I can’t respond back

with an equally deliberate “statement,”

labeled as a joke, 

as I will be the one suddenly crossing the line.

They will say

I have become too agitated and emotional.

So I once again bite my tongue

and swallow tears

as to not be put in the strangling spotlight again.

I appear to be unbearable

in any way or form

I shape myself to be.

So why restrain myself?

I could let everyone feel

the burning intensity of my emotions

they have forced me to live through.

Sadly, I can’t.

As it’s better to be judged

about the little things

breaking you slowly into pieces

than your whole womanhood

you will spend a lifetime with.