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We are the Women

We are the snails,
Slow in our approach, hindered by such a weight upon our shoulders.
Predators swoop upon us as we retreat inside our shells, silence, darkness, and for this we are labelled obedient.

Or perhaps we are the spiders silently twisting up and down a flimsy thread; foolishly hoping those we lust after will become tangled in our web, and for this we are labelled delicate.

Could we be the fantails? Beautifully formed, flitting graceful in and out of sight, watching, and adored for our beauty not our song.

Maybe we are the lizards, shrugging off old skin tempted by a new life, abandoning our memories of a harsh dry existence.

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Still Second

I have been staring at this page all day, writing and erasing, it seems that I just don't have many words today, so I will keep this short...

It is pretty sad when a (male) teacher stands in front of a class of 120 people and tells us that we women should feel so lucky that we are no longer second class citizens. We still are, and it’s still shitty. Oh shit, I actually vocalised that and now everyone is staring. Well fuck it, we are. Yeah I can get an education, but I have to make grades that are SO much better than the male students in my class so that when we both show up to a job interview they might even consider hiring me over him, but in this country, it’s unlikely. I might have a job, a job working behind a bar where I serve idiots who drive trucks that are too big for their families, don’t give a shit about the environment and think I should feel privileged that they even bother to pinch my ass every time I walk by. Sure I have the vote, but most of the time there are no women to vote for in the election now that we have lost (my dearly beloved!) Helen Clark. I can play sport but I can’t watch Women play it on television if there is men’s sport on which takes preference over it immediately. I don’t have to marry and have children but when I seek out healthcare such as asking for a hysterectomy due to chronic pain, I am denied because I am apparently giving up a womb that the world still might want to use.

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Perfect

I saw a show today where someone said that perfection is only measured within a frame of imperfection, and it made me think. I have recently started on a journey of trying to do a little more for myself, more counselling, more painting, more things to throw me off this path of dwelling on every little thing that has happened to me in the last decade, and I gotta tell you, it’s hard. It’s easy for me to blend in with the crowd and be the party girl, that’s what they call me, “they” being my friends, the people I work with, people at school. I am the girl who turns up to a test rottenly hung over and gets an A, and they all say they wish they could do that, but I wish for nothing more than to be able to turn up to a test without having to get drunk the night before because I am terrified that I wont get a perfect score. Somewhere over the years I have equated getting anything less than the “perfect” score as my abuser having some kind of control over that.

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