dear woman, you’re running for president!
you must look presidential, a bar set for men.
you must wear the pants, and you must look strong.
any flair you show, will quickly be undone.
they will talk about your clothes, like they’ve never done before;
after all you are a wannabe, you’re an underdog!
you must fight, you must keep your chin up.
please don’t look too haughty, you better tone it down!
be the wife, the mother, the grandma… be someone they know,
see they’ve made it a challenge, you have to huMANize you.
you see woman, juggling of masks is simply a price you pay.
can you imagine what would happen if you showed your own power instead?
dear woman, you’re running for president!
you must struggle to find that pitch in your voice, the one between the screeching angry bitch that sounds like mother,
and the softy, the one that cannot govern.
and no not that seductive one, lest you be inappropriate.
focus woman, you must sound like them, if you’re to stay in the game.
you see woman, authenticity is simply a price you pay.
can you imagine what would have happened if you had worn that dress instead?
women will pick on you, just as much or more than men.
because woman you’ve got good at fighting for the spot,
where they line you up, bare and showing your stuff,
so they can declare you miss universe!
but know your place, don’t think you can rule the world,
you body is lien, utterly beholden to them.
you’re the stuff of fantasy, don’t you dare kill their buzz!
hide your body! wait no! show it now!
they will undress you with their eyes and cover it with their suits.
you may try to cover it with your own flesh when your bones feel too bare,
but you will be unclothed, reminded who pays your fare.
you see woman, rights to your body is simply a price you pay.
can you imagine what would have happened if you pretended to own it yourself?
but don’t be a victim, that’s weak and unpresidential!
woman you be strong, and look like them, leave that woman card behind.
square your shoulders, wear the suit,
the armor for the weak, will feel like a boxy prison for your strength.
but woman you must wear it to even be up on that stage.
lest the hem of your skirt be used to define you instead.
but now they will test you, your strong and your weak, the mother and whore.
you’ll be pitted against each other, inside you you will roar.
the same body ruthless, too strong, too driven,
you lack stamina, even take disgusting bathroom breaks.
you may think you’re soaring, woman, you’re so close to the top!
but you must pay some price, you will be nudged and shoved.
they will not engage with your mind, your ideas are background noise
a leader of the free world? they will remind you of your blood.
you’ll be made to feel shame that you ever belonged to a man,
but remember what happened when you refused to take up his name?
now they will put her in the front row and blame you for the time he left.
the playbook says get under her skin, so they will try to undo you from within.
dear woman, running for president…
In the course of fair and gentlemanly, and (might i add) suited debate,
you’ve peed and you’ve bled, now they’ll try make you cry,
they will use your waters, they will remind you of your place.
but like the great waters, you can ebb and flow,
you can dance with the earth moving, for it is made of you.
you know the secrets of the earth but they try to harvest you both on demand,
as forests die and lands get barren you wonder in your soul:
you rise from witch hunts, and ashes,
can a suit really contain you?
*they = oppressors
the paradox of being 