the women in my family would let their men set them on fire and apologize for the ash they got on the floor.
The women in my family married grenades, wrapped their bodies around them, and thought they could stop them from exploding if they just held tightly enough.
The women work to spin tales around their husbands transgressions, somehow he is always the hero.
When they cut their hands on his broken pottery heart they chastise themselves for not being soft enough.
I've seen too many women drip blood on the floor while pouring their husbands another drink.
