The Closeted Feminist

"Make me a sandwich."

Well, I would rather not.

"Cover up, slut."

Umm... no.

"You throw like a girl."

If you say so.


Ignore them.

Don't retaliate

Bite your tongue.

Refuse to show them how insane you are.

Because that's what it is, right?

Feminism is madness, right?


I am secretly enticed,

Enticed by the concept of equality. 

It whispers to me in everyday affairs of injustice.

The chipping away of reproductive rights.

The "non-existent" wage gap.

The physical objectification.

I long to speak up,

but I will not.



Feminists hate families.

And, I do not.

Feminists hate men.

And, I do not.

Feminists are lesbians.

And, I am not.

Feminists are angry.

And, I am not.

I do not complement the stereotype.

And, I will not.


I have been conditioned to silence my cries.

Because, why would anyone choose to be a bitter, whipping wind,

When you could be a bland, whispered breeze?

Because, why would anyone desire to become an inconvenience,

When you could be a propriety?

I have been disciplined to bask in laconism.



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