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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.
Because,
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.