Today, my brain is a weepy, muddled mess of what could be and what isn’t. Feelings that betray my better instincts. A frustratingly opaque world of thoughts I can’t pinpoint.
I write sentences and erase them, one character at a time, with loud key strokes.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
If I’d have been born a man, I’d be unstoppable. I’d take up two seats on a metro with my leg spread. I wouldn’t feel small, or weak, or scared. The adrenaline rush I’d feel when someone grabbed my wrist would make me draw fists, not tears.
If I’d have been born a man, I’d be confident. I’d impart my wisdom in the middle of other’s sentences. I wouldn’t act meek, or shy, or humble. The success I achieved would be marked by boasts, not apologies.
I should have been born a man.
But I’m glad I was born a woman.
Only, I couldn’t tell you why.
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