I am imperfect

The women who came before me, the ones who suffered so that I could live, I think of them. Carving their names in blood just so they could live with free will. The very top of the mountain, far far away, a world beyond the skies. Except, there were only men there. Philosophers, poets, writers, and painters mentioned in the absence of the women that inspired them. But there were mystical women, sparkling with desire and triumphant when the time came to be. We can’t forget them.

I do not consider myself born with sin, I am not Eve. Are we merely vessels carrying life? A flesh prison bending and twisting at the will of his hand, wishing for a soft touch that we’ll never get. Soldiers, astrophysicists, popes and priests. They say, women are hostile, emotional, and frantic. The Virgin Mary is the perfect symbol of what women will never be: Virgin and a mother. Blessed be those who have tried and failed, seeking perfection as an imperfect soul. Our skin is soft and grazed, it is not evil with sin.

They remind that I can exist amongst everyone because I am imperfect. I can stand in front of there mirror and tell myself that I am the world, even with all the flaws that have been birthed from my womb.