Poetry Post: Let Me Get This Straight

I will not be a bride waiting for her groom,

I will be a bride who celebrates beside him.

Let me get this straight,

I am not a weaker vessel.

I am as strong as He made you,

Because He is the one that gives me strength.

Like Jesus is to God,

We are equals.

I was tasked to be a good human,

With qualities only I possess.

Where one of us is lacking,

The other will fill in.

As good teammates do,

We will work together.

That is why I love him,

And I love Him.

I will not serve him,

But we will serve Him.

Let me get this straight,

I am your equal.

Don’t spread the word of man,

Only the words from the one who created him.

Only the words from the one who created her,

Only the words from the one who created me.

He is love,

We have the ability.

He is perfection,

We strive for it.

Let me get this straight,

I do not serve man.

 


 

While going through some of my older poetry, I realized that everything was far too emo to take seriously, but then I discovered this. The Lord knows that nothing gets me fired up more than sexism, and I can’t stand when men who claim to love God actually think that women are beneath them. I am beyond tired of men both in the church and out of it looking at women like we are meant to be protected, like we are fragile, like we need to be parented. We are human, equal to men, and in no need of their control. I do not need to be guided by a man; that is what a parent is for. With my future husband, I want to be loved and cared for just as I would do for him, on an equal playing field. We will be teammates who fill in the gaps for one another.

Thus, this poem was written. Thus, the first poetry post was born, as promised.


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Thoughts On The Art Museum

Spontaneity isn’t always about doing the most exciting thing you can think of in the moment; it can be something as simple as going to get ice cream after work just because you can. Or, like today, going to an art museum simply because it’s free and your family wants something to do.

In my hometown, the local art museum is the place that you visit every year on school field trips. It’s where your parents drag you when there’s a new exhibit and you can get a student discount. It’s where you take tourists who haven’t seen a Monet or Gaugin in person. It’s a place that is foreign to outsiders, but worthy of dread to the kids who have grown up here. We’ve seen it all; it isn’t exciting anymore. I don’t know if it ever was.

Last time I visited, I had to tell my boyfriend at the time that, no, you cannot touch the paintings. The way he stood too close, walked around carelessly, talked above hushed tones let me know that he had never been in an art museum before he could even tell me.

Last time I visited, I was still in the mindset that art museums are boring, particularly this one because I’d been at least a hundred times. I tolerated it because it was something special for his family, and I pretended like I knew everything, despite the fact that my eyes glazed over and my mind would wander every time anyone tried to teach me a single thing about the art prior to that day.

This time, I’m a little older. I walked inside with that familiar dread, knowing I was in for a big old snooze-fest, but found myself lost in the first painting I laid my eyes on.

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I turned from the check-in desk and felt myself being drawn into the room beside me. This massive painting seemed brand new, though I know I must have walked past it before, staring blankly and thinking about things that were clearly so much more important. I never saw the intense blue that pops out at you, a harsh contrast from the otherwise dull colors. I never saw the spear in the woman’s arm, and I never realized that she represents the goddess of war. I looked at it with boredom just a few years ago, but since today I have no idea how I ever looked at any of these beautiful and symbolic paintings with zero interest.

Growing up isn’t all that bad. I’m seeing things in a different light than I used to and it’s both terrifying and exciting.

I stood in front of each painting for several minutes just staring and really thinking about it, fully aware that a few years ago I was convinced that the people who stare at paintings for longer than thirty seconds do so only to seem pretentious and knowledgeable. Suddenly, I was one of those people I used to look down on. I get it now. They all have separate identities. They all mean something and stand for a particular time in history and holy crap they’re older than most buildings left standing. Suddenly, they were all beautiful.

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I fell in love with the colors and brushstrokes,

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the mischievous grins,

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and the coldness that I never knew could radiate off of a canvas.

It was all brand new and exciting and I was so grateful for my spontaneous mother and sister for dragging me along with them. The paintings never change, but I clearly have. They symbolize everything the artist intended for them to symbolize, but they now symbolize my own progression in life and that is beautiful to me. They showcase a time in history, frozen in their crackling paint, but they now hold a piece of my own history, even if I’m the only one that that matters to.


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Last Night

To the boy last night: you don’t know what you’ve done.

You don’t know that your actions have been on my mind nonstop.

You don’t know that I’m grateful for any distraction right now.

You don’t know that I’m more messed up now than I’ve been before.

You don’t know that you pushed me over the edge.

That’s what happens when you only think about yourself.

See, I’ve been here before.

A boy set his eyes on me,

Had me thinking everything was fine and we were getting along,

Just to try and claim what is not his.

If I give an inch,

You boys will always take a mile.

I do not want to share my body with you,

But you didn’t think to ask that,

Did you?

I saw through your small apology,

Because it felt just like him.

You did what you wanted and apologized later.

It dripped with anger because I was obviously uncomfortable.

He was always angry at me.

He took advantage of me.

On an unsuspecting night with an unsuspecting girl,

You decided you would do the same.

I could feel your anger as I wanted you to stop.

I was suddenly right back with him again.

I was afraid.

You didn’t know that.

How could I tell you,

When I knew you were already getting angry?

I was already full of fear of what you might do if I tried to stop you.

You pulled out of the parking garage when you finally understood that I was not okay,

I was so relieved,

But you still didn’t take me home.

You still wanted control,

And I could hear it in your voice as you asked why I was so quiet.

Your voice didn’t go quiver like mine had,

Nor did it shake.

I was afraid.

I’d been there before with him many times.

I couldn’t do it again.

You were a different person than him,

So I decided to treat it differently.

I quieted your anger by faking comfort and with a smile,

I said “silence is nice sometimes.”

You were unhappy with my answer,

Seeing through it,

But at least you let go of your anger.

He wouldn’t have.

I think you tried to make it better,

Once you calmed down,

But the damage had been done.

I knew I wouldn’t see you again.

You scared me in the same way he always did.

You didn’t know that he took advantage of me.

You didn’t know that he was always angry at me.

You didn’t know I just wanted respect.

I’m not an object.

I am not a body.

I am a human,

And you are not entitled to me.

Though I am worthy of your respect,

I don’t want it,

But I do refuse to let it happen again.

What happened with him all those years will not happen with you.

I will not be heartbroken again,

And I will not let you in.

 

You don’t know what you have done.



 

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