Look, boy, I'm talking to you:
You who love the curve of my hip like a child
You who find solace when I'm meek-mannered and mild
You who find sweetness in my summer fleetness
You who remind me that my femininity is weakness –

Just look.

You tell your boys to apologize for their weakness
And your girls to apologize for their uniqueness;
You tell me that it isn't hard for a woman to succeed –

she must simply become man in manner and deed.

There – you say with a Cheshire smirk
As women earn half-credit
for three times the work –
That wasn't so hard, dear, now was it?
(And are you sure you're cut out for this type of work?)

You're forgetting, boy:
I won't wield my beauty as a scepter.
I won't make you any less of a male.

There is no need to fear the woman in me:
Seeing with me,
Agreeing with me,
Doesn't make you frail.

But know, darling, this above all:

Your Cheshire smirk will fade.

Oppress me – compress me:
I have no shame.

I'm ready. I'm willing.
I'll beat you at your own game.