Strange to be a woman.

A bottomless well, quickly emptied.

Even with joy and gratitude, still some needs unmet. Still so many secrets unknown. Still a longing Thirst.

Don’t accuse me of unfaithfulness— It is not me. Nor disloyalty; it is not my colour.

Indeed I strive to be a pillar of righteousness. To be faithful and honest in all things. To be fair and behave queenly.

Still— to be a woman is to be in longing. To be in doubt. Aware of the hole in the pit of the soul, however small, every woman is born with it and bears it out all her days. Where no man can reach Nor fill. Most men are unaware of its existence and we try to maintain this facade.

We do not wish to be ”too much”. To demand too much or desire too much nor need too much because men scare and tire easily and will not endure it for long.

But there you have it. The truth of it all. Deny it if it will help you, but these words will haunt you in their knowing.

—girl who has been here too long

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