Dirty Lipstick

Prologue

I have always had a thing for period writings. The women on those pages were tamed by the times and properties of a man. The rights and wrongs of situations plunging them into obedience, but they always seemed so strong and diplomatic with how they presented themselves. Like it was educated how and when appropriate it was to have such valid, strong opinions, but deliver this in the most eloquent way. I admired these women but also despised them. Continuously screaming in my head at them to just tell them how you feel! Don't swallow it down and let it eat you up. I admired these women, but I am not one of them. For I am a fire that burns, with a tongue so sharp it would cut wounds into the very fabric of a man! I hold nothing back. For in my stubbornness and need to be right, I validate myself and my feelings and let it be known with a flick of my tongue that I am a woman scorned. I am my mothers daughter and endure her pain as she did her mother before her. I cut for the women who had no voice, who was so obedient and forgetful of herself! I rage for the damage the male bravado has caused for generation to generation. And I hurt for the ungentle fist ploughed into the mechanics of the female mind, convincing us that we are weak and soft and subordinate. I admire the class and educated navigation of those women. But I am me! Messy, chaotic, and unfiltered.