Member-only story
All Eyes in the Room Are On Her
Prose Poetry
There’s a woman you may know — characterized by the sleek black of her attire, her hair drawn back from her face, the aura around her oozing tactics of intimidation. If you didn’t know better, then she might be a man — though you feel at odds with such a thought, because couldn’t women do pretty much everything a man could? Forget about the odd’s and out’s; instead, dig deep and recognize that this woman is a force whether you give her permission or not.
This woman stands apart, and you can never imagine her back straining forward or backward from the weight of a child. But, again, that’s your own skim of the surface — because women do not equal mothers, no matter how much the social blather tries to equate the two forever and beyond. And for every mother out there — well, why do you try to belittle her? Why can’t she be exactly what she wants to be without your backward notions?
The woman you see is not what you make of her — but what she makes of herself in the face of so much scrutiny from a world that would love to hate her. Tell your stories all you want, and wave your spiteful gossip like a warning flag — but just know that what you throw at her makes her stronger, the anger a fuel for greater things like revolutions and toppling of empires that made other people bow in response.
