This Girl, by Lisa Brancaccio

This girl

is taking a stand.

A stand against the man,

against the system.

The system that sits him

at the head of the table,

at the head of the home.

When I come home

I want to be alone,

alone at my desk

with my pen and my pad,

not alone in the kitchen

washing dishes and feeling bad.

Is that what I am

expected to do?

Fuck you.

I am independent

and I refuse

to be dependent on a man,

especially one without

a damn clue.

If you men only knew

all the shit we go through.

We spend our lives pleasing,

believing that what we are achieving

is a better standing,

a better chance at love.

The Lady said it best,

this beat,

this love game is sick.

It makes us pick

between loving ourselves

and feeling loved by you.

This girl

has played the game

and has lost every time.

Every rhyme,

every line I compose

is composed of spite

and a bitter regret

that I cannot get

to where I want to be

by just being me.

I have to grab attention

with a fucking curse

or a sexual rhyme.

This girl

is taking a stand

against all future commands

telling me to dress to impress.

I’m pressed for time,

but not without any sign

of hope or reason to believe

that I can achieve

all of my dreams,

including the dreams

that scream for a little love.

This love game is sick

and this girl,

she quits.

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