*I went over the word count for this one, bad me! But it was an interesting Challenge anyway.

https://theprose.com/challenge/12234

I always kinda thought female empowerment was stupid.

Women are built to stretch and hold an entire watermelon inside them then push it out magically wrapped in a little microbiome of love and infection-defending bacteria.

Women are built to respond to conflicts typically with a “fight” response (based on studies of protestors at least) because they are the last line of defense for their watermelons.

Women have no Y chromosome which makes their immune systems slightly stronger (hence I made all the COVID supply runs - I was the best zombie scout, obvs)

Women outlive men traditionally and in studies of household longevity hold up way better than the worse case alternative (which in studies was a single father - that poor bastard’s longevity tanked in comparison).

Women are supposedly innately good at having “omnivision” - whereby they’re constantly aware of their surroundings because that’s how you protect your watermelons from would be crushers.

Women bleed for a week and don’t die (I was told this joke was not funny by my partner, who hates blood).

Women get raped even in so-called developed America at rates averaging 1 in 6 but still get back up and keep fighting, even with “the list” of things they might then have to do to protect themselves in the real world.

Women pushed for prohibition when their menfolk were beating them - because they blamed the alcohol, not the men.

Prostitutes paid for schools and built whole frontier towns - because they had most of the money when the mines all panned out and used it to build their community. Those states refused to join the union unless their women were extended the right to vote.

Female scientists, authors, and artists, and more all contributed throughout history without forethought to their accolades or whether they might merit more than a footnote in the pages of time.

Women statistically do 2 hours more of housework per day than men, despite also holding 50% of the jobs in this country and still working/paying bills. Many women end up taking on more chores when they get a man, studies show. Some women have decided this means they shouldn’t get a man. Others are like, “Eh, but he’s cute.”

Women beat their female partners. Lesbian abuse is a thing, just like abuse in any other couple.

Women play rough, harsh contact sports. They often play many sports with more technical accumen and accuracy (according to the old sports heads at the hardware store) than their higher-paid male counterparts, who rely more on brute strength/size/speed or flashy moves that often skirt the rules when playing their highly covered games.

Women got away with wearing men’s clothes, ages ago. They stole high heels, wigs, frills, lace, all the fancy male fashion pieces. They still get to wear dresses too - only strong men like the kilt-wearing Celts or gorgeously fierce drag queens or Harry Stiles have managed this trick.

Women have mood swings just like men.

You can use estrogen almost exactly like testosterone for many of the same applications.

Honestly, the similarities are a bit uncanny really when I think about it. Women are scary, persistent soldiers of life. They bring you into the world, and they can take you out as my mama always said.

Versus men who I pity. Because I look at their statistics and all I see is sadness and co-dependency.

Men have a 1 in 4 suicide rate.

Men traditionally have been forced into war, drafted against their will, treated like dogs by abusive military trainers under the guise of “training” before being sent out to do horrific things for non-military minds that ultimately break their spirits/souls, or turn them into even worse dogs than their military trainers.

Men have shorter life expectancies and apparently cannot cope with being alone in a household. “Bachelor” pads are a thing, apparently, because men who stay single risk dying young and alone. Best to get a woman to do those extra 2 hours of housework to keep you alive.

Men have that pesky Y chromosome (which some bitchy girls apparently can also have, so they don’t even get that special gene to themselves) that means they’re doomed to lower immune efficiency. Even that Y chromosome has apparently been dwindling, as it used to have the same number of genes as the X chromosome but now apparently has fewer than 80 functional genes at a 3% fraction of what the X chromo does. Yet scientists are quick to point out the Y chromosome’s resiliency as well as the necessity of those few genes that have survived.

Men are selected/judged for strength, size, health, as well as the lack of other “weaknesses” such as flat feet, poor eyesight, and a plethora of other physical traits...before once again they’re then shipped off to die during their peak reproductive years in constant wars we glorify as the founding events of our history where true heroes are forged. Not sure if this has something to do with that loss of Y chromosome genetic diversity over the centuries but eh, what do I know. I’m a dumb pacifist who thinks war is stupid and serves only assholes.

Men work in factories and on shop floors, taking the dirty grunt jobs that require muscle and strong backs despite the fact that ostensibly machines (and women) could potentially do many of these jobs without sacrificing our poor menfolk - sort of like how we outsourced those housework chores with convenient appliances for women (yet they’re still spending 2 extra hours somehow everyday doing housework, so strange).

Men have incredibly strong, hard-to-tame sex drives which demand not just porn but full body sex dolls or escorts, because apparently some poor men cannot objectify women to a body part like a fleshlight or a dildo and need a whole body for “companionship”, as if this is something different than simple sex or imaginary sex that women rely on (possibly because of their fear of having to bear watermelons).

Men are not allowed to show emotion unless it’s anger. When they do show peaceful emotions, it takes incredible strength/courage/safe spaces to do so because they are never permitted to show weakness. Which might be why some men seek that “companionship” thing above.

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Now.

This ENTIRE post is completely, totally, BULLSHIT.

You know why?

Because human sexuality/chromosomes are a SPECTRUM. People are not simply “male” or “female” they are actually a diverse range of chromosomal mixes that express nearly the same way with just a few pesky details, like that silly Y chromosome.

You can train a woman and a man just the same - however, on an INDIVIDUAL BASIS you may need to adapt moves to fit each PERSON’S different style/body shape, which vary widely across genders.

You can teach a woman and a man the same way - however, on an INDIVIDUAL BASIS people are neurodiverse and learn/communicate in different ways that often transcend base gender binaries.

You can love a woman or a man - it doesn't take much anatomy because honestly the only anatomy required to love somebody is a heart.

Again, there are NOT big differences here. Most of our gender stereotypes are complete and utter social constructs we make up in our heads and perpetuate in our hearts.

Which means, frankly, for me to be happy as a woman?

I stop thinking of myself as just a “woman”

And I start thinking of myself as a “person” instead.

...that said, I do kinda love men. I mean, that rare Y chromosome just calls to me, ya know? It’s like “Gasp - you’re still in the gene pool despite the ravages of time? Alright, soldier boy!”

However, had I been brought up differently, who’s to say? I was once taught sexuality wasn’t a choice. Which was a lucky thing to learn, frankly, because it meant I had a good excuse for not feeling any interest in the many fine, intelligent, way hotter ladies that used to hit on me all the time.

Silly Y chromosomes. Hope they hang in there. Me, I’m good. I like zombie scout duty.

You tell me that you have almost given up,

that there is nothing left to live for but guilt.

You tell me you’ve almost come to the point

where you know you’ll give up,

and stop fighting.

You tell me there isn’t anything left,

that it’s too hard to wake up each morning.

That it’s too hard to get through each day,

that it’s too hard knowing that there will always

always be another day coming, and you don’t know

if you can do it anymore.

You tell me how you’re so tired.

You ask me what to do, but I don’t know what to say anymore.

I’m at a loss for words, I’m at a loss for advice.

The whole world keeps turning,

around and around and around and around and around

but what happened when my own world stops,

what happens when the gears stop working,

and the heart stops beating.

What happens when I am alive in a world, I feel is dead?

I don’t know what to do anymore.

I don’t know what advice to give,

to reassure you that everything is going to be ok,

because I can’t even believe that myself.

Is that clear to you?

I’m sorry, I really am.

But I don’t know what to do anymore.

I try to help, and to listen,

but what can I do?

I try not to cry,

and stay strong,

but what happens when I break?

Where are the stars in this darkness,

where is the light?

Please tell me because I can feel

myself drowning in a sea

of darkness,

and too many possibilities.

How can I help?

We’re just so tired of life,

too many thoughts,

to much silence,

too much darkness,

too much unreal hope.

But that’s all it is.

To us, it’s just a word

that is used to make people

think that life will get better.

Hope is a lie to you and I,

it doesn’t exist, it’s just a dream.

We don’t want you to leave,

if you left us, our world would fall apart

until it was nothing but crumbling dreams,

and broken words, nothing but bloody tears,

and twisted limbs.

It’s too late to turn back and fix our mistakes,

it’s too late to stop the world from turning against you.

The deed is done,

the words have been said,

we cannot go back.

But what can I do to help you?

Please tell me,

because I’m so tired of not knowing what to do,

Please tell me,

because I’m so tired of having to stand by and watch you fall,

without knowing what to do to help.

Life at its core is a tragedy. Characters fighting their flaws. The resolution always death. The ending spoiled from the beginning. And yet, we characters, we like to imagine otherwise. But what is so wrong with a tragedy?

A comedy may seem like a better option. Shakespearean comedies mirror modern day romance films: the ending cultivating in marriage. But what happens next we often wonder? For after the “I dos”, the conflict persists. It is continuous and eternal. A comedy can only track the character for a certain portion of her life. It ends feeling complete. But what happens after the honeymoon is over?

Inevitably, the escalator moves us forward.

My grandparents experienced over 50 years of marriage. The key word we generally add to this description is “wonderful” and their marriage was full of more positives than negatives. But make no mistake, there was tension. There are differences of opinions, and styles, and music and dinner choices. And after this duration of differences for over 50 years, my grandfather passed away. Unwillingly but expectedly. I can still remember his body lying on the floor and my grandmother gently touching his still face. By all rights, we could label this a tragedy. A great love terminated. My grandmother alone. And I wonder how many times in her heart she tells herself, “If only Louie were here...” But he is not.

Yet she is still living. And even though we know how her story will turn out, which is to say in death, she is still laughing at jokes and enjoying ice cream. She is still supporting political candidates that I cannot stand the sight of. You see, it is the perspective in which we tune in to the events that makes the difference. A comedy starts with trouble and ends on high note and a tragedy the reverse. She has continued where an ending had existed. So, the question remains: Where do we decide to begin or end the story?

When experiencing labor contractions, a woman may believe herself to be dying. Unaided by medicine, the pain ranks generally as the worst pain she may ever experience while living. Yet, the birth of a child can be exceedingly joyous. Because it ends in the birth of a being. A creature full of potential, promise and pride. Again, not all mothers feel as I did. Because their stories are different than mine. Even still, the child will grow and cause problems. The terrible twos may feel like the reign of a dictator. Again, we jump in and out of a life. How are you telling your story?

We know the ending for each of us. At some point our mortality will overthrow our perspective. But such a dichotomy creates the poignancy of each moment. For isn’t there also beauty and joy in a tragedy? Doesn’t the director zoom into a scene that takes your breath away? When all seems lost in the heartbreak, there is always that one thing: someone holding the dying character’s hand, a gentle kiss on the forehead or a sunset that deserves to be painted. In the midst of loss, what to cherish clarifies.

This is your tragedy. You are the protagonist. Make the audience mourn your exit. Be the hero that we can’t imagine living without. For then perhaps, we will carry your story and it will stir the beginning of something else which in turn will not classify it as a tragedy after all.

I'm a girl

a girl who exaggerates her problems

just like everyone else

a girl who tries to fit in

just like everyone else

a girl who can't fit in

just like everyone else

I'm a girl

who is so much like everyone else

who tries to be so much like everyone else

that I don't know who myself is

only that I'm a carbon copy

of the next teenage girl you see walking down the street

except that I'm a carbon copy

that didn't turn out quite right

so in the end

I'm a girl

just a girl

a girl who tries but fails and keep trying because there's no other option

because not fitting in isn't an option

not anymore

because I changed from that fifth grader

who strived in every way to not be like everyone else

but I didn't change like everyone else

just enough to be on the outside looking in

a girl who can't hack it

not enough to fit in

a try-hard who can't try hard enough

so here I am

trying and failing and trying some more

because I have no more options left.

All the days you live in fear, you will forget. I know at times it will feel like that is every day, and at that time, you think you will never be able to forget the fear. The face of it, the smell of it, the ache of it. But you will. The days you remember are the ones in which you live.

You know those moments. You know those moments. When your heart feels as if will burst through your chest but not from anxiety, from happiness! At first, there aren't a lot of moments like that. And you will struggle a lot to find and keep the happy in your life. Time and again you will push away the blissful moments, those who bring you involuntary smiles, laughter and peace because you don't believe you deserve these things.

It will be more than a decade that you struggle but life will have its way with you, because you're just not meant to despair forever. You will walk a path of healing, of growth, self-discovery and love. You will hold hands, gaze into the souls of and exchange hearts with so many beautiful people. You will write your truth, and it will save your life.

You will become more beautiful than you ever thought you could be. There will be amazing people who cycle in and out of your life, and someday, I believe, you will find someone who will cycle in and not want to cycle back out. Someone who will be a permanent hand to hold, soul to dance with and keeper of your heart. Hopefully ten years from now, I can write me all about him.

For now though, I can tell you the future is a beautiful place. You created a life of struggle for yourself, being you, and that's okay. Because beautiful does not mean easy. But 90% of your beauty comes from your strength. So go ahead and get knocked down, you will be so much stronger when you get back up.

Oh, and you are so very loved.

Always,

Mee

You feel like you are seeing life from the bottom of an abyss. There is no color, no joy. All is bleak. Gray. Dark. You spend hours a day locked inside yourself to have enough energy to smile for those who need you to be thus. But you cry in your car. And in the shower. Whenever you are alone.

You will feel like this for a long time. But then one day, you will not. You will reach the depths of despair with a blade in your hand and a silent scream in your throat and you will dig deep and stay the hand and loose the scream.

And then you will begin anew. But better.

Hold on.

I love it here

cool wind

alone with my fears, people talk less

Although the street light comforts me

the breeze at midnight won't agree

My castle walls are made with paper

I assemble it when sleep comes over

He comes so late and leaves too early

sometimes it feels like he won't be visiting

when he does, we forget the streetlight and people walking

My two best friends never meet

not long after sleep awakens

hunger eats most hours with me

I weather through his aches

He sings for my embrace

His toxic love weary me

not as much as a bed and a hot meal

proper shade, filled with cotton and wood

To say I love it here

is to hope I loose my friends

not sleep, I want him near

hunger visits once or twice a year

the pens of authors tend to bleed

rather than sing with rapture

happiness lacks the layers

that the dark posses as their own

yet the simplicity

that is what makes it

some kind of magic

for a moment you’re

living in the moment

because how could you

feel, think, dream

of anything more than

right now?

because you’re sitting around

with the people you love

listening to that song

and laughing about nothing

where else would your mind

Rather wander?

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

I’ve been waiting my whole life for things to happen.

Yet, dispite me willing things to come to fruition, for some unknown reason, they simply don’t. How unfortunate, right?

I’m sitting here craving a connection, absolutely anything. I wish for someone to text me, to talk to me, to just keep me company. I’m isolated. I’m so fucking cold from this disconnection.

I’m sitting here wanting to do so many things, I want to paint, to draw, to learn to dance or maybe sing. But I just can’t find the effort, or the time. I just can’t find a way to make myself get up and try.

I’m sitting here, in this car, going on a trip around the narrow roads of these hills and mountains. I just sit here, silent. Watching the dash clock’s red glow, entranced as it ticks by. Wishing the dirt would crumble beneath my tires. Wishing the car would roll. Wishing it would tumble down the steep terrain, and crush me where I sit.

I’m sitting here, drunk, at a campfire. Heat searing my face, even as the flames melt into embers. Still, I’m frozen. People chat around me, some even to me. I talk to them, sure, but all we form is some sort of trivial connection. It still isn’t enough.

Why isn’t it enough?

When I wake up. When I’m sober. When I come back to reality...

Nothing has changed.

I’m still me. I’m still waiting.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

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Photo cred. - https://onedio.co/content/15-most-dangerous-roads-to-take-you-to-the-edge-15773