When I was born (a baby girl) to salt upon the Earth,
it was a disappointment and I felt it every day.
As years passed and I grew into a soul of lesser worth
reminded, daily, that a son is what they wanted anyway.
No danger that indulgence would create, in me, a princess,
my upbringing solidified my urge to have it, later.
So, independent, I struck out to find some worth, or niceness
in other ones I’d meet (while knowing I was greater.)
I elevate myself and know that I’m my best promoter,
that I can get material and hoard it on my farm;
accretion leading to a pile that I’ve dominion over.
When I want help I’m nice as hell, am outward with my charm.
But if my helper helps too much by hinting at what, further,
might make my life a richer one (as new eyes, of’t, can do,)
reminded of things that I know but don’t face (just a bother)
I turn upon now used up help, discharging it: “Go screw!”
Though I need help, it contradicts the fiction I’ve created
that I’m a woman, by myself amassed this trove of treasure.
It comforts me to always see the things I craved. I hated
every man who denigrated women at their pleasure.
Even though a man may act as if he’s liberated
I am not fooled, their maleness rules their being, ever, well!
No humane act can change the fact that men are over-rated.
I’ll never admit that “I can’t do it.” I won’t go back to Hell.
© J. Risdon 20140306:1219