Friends make us tea
because warmth is always good.
Our mothers tell us to come home,
to get out of the city.
People who are not friends tell us
it’s not a big deal
tell us to get over it.
And sometimes friends do, too.
And then they are not friends.
Bosses calculate their empathy
based on how much our traumas
will cost them.
It is all so costly.
There is too much sorry.
Always “I don’t know what to say.”
And sometimes nothing.
And that’s okay.
Some silences are worse than others.
We know this.
Then there’s the crushing weight of smallness,
and, of course, the sadness.
There’s the before and there’s the after and
sometimes we think they are the same but
then there is the remembering.
And it is all different.
The anger where there wasn’t before.
The heartbeat in our throats.
The clenched fists.
The third eye on the nape of our necks.
How the men all look the same, anyway.
Is it still paranoia if our fear has proven rational over and over?
But then again,
isn’t this just being woman?
Isn’t this just so typical?
Isn’t the worst part that we aren’t even surprised?
That we are only surprised that it hadn’t happened
How could we forget that as long as we have our bodies,
there is always more
to be taken from us.