He loves me,
He loves me not.
A riddle taught to blind little girls.
We learned how to patiently wait on love. Picking petals of a flower hoping to end as the exception to a failing romance.
We are pampered and pruned as the acceptors to male privilege. To be what is wished of us and not what we wish of ourselves. We live, hoping for love. Thinking it is empowered only by the will of another and never ourselves. Conforming to his made reality rather than our own. Hoping that life did not abandon our aspirations of being truly loved and never broken. The truth is we were born into a world, cracked by the fabrication of what should have been reality. A false sense of what it is to be whole based off the desires of another superior being. We were birthed in spite of prayers for a boy. Made to wait hand and knee for the sweaty brows of men. Told that we do not create or offer more than those above us. Reinforced to believe falsities of companionship, when in truth the love we wish we knew is nothing but misjudged and misguided. We know, what truth lies beyond, but steadily stride through with blinded eyes and hearts. Why? Why is it that I must conform, obey, never retaliate? Why is it that I have been trained to please and never be pleased, to love but never truly be loved, to respect but learn to live disrespected. I want to know the truth? We were born to fall. I was born to fail. God be damned for making a new Eve of Adams rib. . . Either way, we'll both meet our end.
