Misandry

You spy on me one day, as I sit in the window, Feverishly scribbling down my woes on simple Student paper, akin to a sorry two-year-old bawling Over spilled milk – a mistake they in no way should have Made. Next thing that I know, my work is crinkled In your fists, on the floor, in the waste-paper basket, With only derisive words for praise.

Finished, I might carefully extract the torn pages From the sheepish nooks and crannies of the house While you go to bed upstairs. My feet may cooperate, They may not. It depends on your mood. All I ask Is for some peace and quiet while I slave away – Working for a freedom that should be freely mine. Therefore, the nights are long, the hands ache along With the rest of me, and I, the scribe, will dictate to My deepest will. No apologies or flowers or gifts will Save you now. I am done. I wash my hands of your Degrading jests, your shouts and your asphyxiating Power. I rid myself of you.