. . . of the twenty-first century:
is how this misogynistic world
has treated me.
No, you don’t have to pay for my dinner;
For I have a job
that allows me to eat more than three times a day.
Yes, I work hard for a career
that ensures financial stability,
enabling me to thrive
for the rest of my life
with or without a man
by my side.
I am alright.
No, you don’t have to walk me to my seat;
For I can drive,
let me hold the wheel,
I can bring us home
regardless of distance, weather, and time.
Yes, I can pay the gas
in case we run out along our way;
I can also change tire if flat.
I can even kick–butt carnappers
’til they cry.
So sit back
Enjoy our ride!
No, you should never worry about my “vulnerabilities–”
for they are mines;
and I can manage them.
I’ve been good
at keep things private
Yes, I calculate my challenges
better than Casio;
I scrutinize all terms and conditions
like Inspector Gadget
by using the tools of science and math
and by upholding the principles of business and economics.
I keep emotions and hearsays,
rumors and misconceptions away
from my workplace
Everything to me now is an executive decision–
As I strive to bring something on the table.
Because, gone are the days
I only clean the table.
I long flushed those limiting beliefs
to the potty. So terrible!
I benchmark my efforts and thoughts;
so my work products can speak for me,
and not those from you, Ma, and the kids,
whose account of yours truly may seem “always” correct and warranted,
but it’s possibly tainted by unconditional love or vendetta.
You must not underestimate my stamina
just because I’m wearing stilettos and pink acrylic.
No, they don’t make me
the weakest link.
For I carry life
in my womb so blue;
raise it on my shoulders so red,
on my hips,
this remains my utmost purpose and unparalleled contribution to this world–
I am stronger than you know it.
You. Yes, you, man, you:
that the ever imbalance weighing scale
has been to your greatest advantage;
but I don’t care!
For what matters,
I work hard to better myself;
I am educated;
I am employed;
I remained poised.
I stay healthy, pretty, and fit.
For what makes your side,
of that rusty scale
are the dusts
and their mites.
We are equal.
I am not
and will never
of your successes.
are my notorious fears,
my insidious inhibitions,
and my felonious insecurities.
In fact, my man:
I wrote RIPs in their marble name plates, along with
“Woman of the Twenty-First Century is my murderer. Liberate her with all your powers and means
as she long