Why is it so goddamn hard to teach your son how to love a woman?
To love her for the things inside her head,
and not for what’s between her legs,
and not for what she has hiding underneath her blouse.

Why is it so hard to teach your son to treat a woman with love and compassion?
To treat her as an equal to you,
to love her like she loves you,
and not as a machine to let out your steam of your wildest fantasies.

Why is it so hard to teach your son to never hit a woman?
To caress her skin,
to tell her what’s wrong and right with you and the world,
and not as a mechanism for how you cope with your abused childhood.

Why is it so hard to teach your son how to love?
And to be loved in return,
to know it’s okay to cry,
to feel.

Why is it so hard to tell your son that no, telling a woman she’s hot through an open window of a driving pickup is not a way to get a date?
To tell her that she is beautiful for all of the right reasons,
to share with her how much she means to you,
and to know she feels the same.

But I guess I just want to know one simple little thing: when was it ever okay to release your desires on a woman fighting and kicking at your face?
She cries and aches to be let out of your prison cage of arms and legs,
to get away from what is to change her life forever,
to get away from your snarling face and sweaty hands.

Because what you teach your sons
is what you also tell your daughters, maybe
“Don’t wear that skirt if you want to get raped tonight.”
“You were asking for it already.”

No woman should ever feel threatened
by a man’s insecurities
Or by his sex.

A woman should feel safe,

secure,

strong, and not broken.

Happy with her body and most importantly
herself.