Balled Up Fists

I crush me between my fingers and palm, squeezing tightly - relentlessly

Into my balled up fist I threw the things that make me me. 

The bad things -

my thighs, my innocence, my stubborn hard-headed attitude much better fit for a man.

A man who can speak and be heard without saying, "humbly" or "please" or "excuse me."

I threw the good things -

my creativity, my individuality, my quiet inner-strength that men reduce to "biased, emotional thinking".

I am empty, a clean sheet of unruled white paper

and I mold myself into the perfect outline of a woman:

straight lines drawn in pen, delicately detailing my sensible skirt and soothing voice and gentle mannerisms.

My thin upper arms and the click of my kitten heels and the submissive way I end every statement with, "Well, I mean, I don't know."

I am saying, 

"I'm just a woman."

No, I'm a girl, they tell me.

I crush this woman hard in my fist. She scatters like dust.