I am assigned to what they can drain of me with the most minimal credit.
My stories are rejected & dissected & replaced for the male stage.
Yet I will be called upon once again, to edit their edit of myself.
I am called upon solely for my ‘Woman’s Touch’ to a male’s identity stamped all over what was mine.
I will erase & correct such fantastic fictionalized facts…
… all under his name.
The Woman’s Touch will win him awards, admiration, applause.
I should think what I speak out matters,
Or how my overgrown thoughts hold worth,
But let’s now fool ourselves,
No one sits around for the credits.
When my photo is taken,
I don't smile with my teeth exposed.
All because of a single tooth, out of 28.
No one would notice.
No one would care.
Yet I sit and wonder what went wrong.
Was it those couple packets of cigarettes I
smoked at university?
Or more likely was it my daily cups of coffee,
and the tendency to chew my food carelessly?
It all really doesn't matter.
But at times it matters to me.
