They teach us to smile before we can speak.
They teach us the strong should pretend to be meek.
To pour out our water so others can drink,
To swallow the anger, to nod, and to shrink.
We are raised in the church of the accommodating,
Where a saint is a woman who’s endlessly waiting.
The always-available, easy-to-please,
Who carries the weight of the room on her knees.
We build up a self that is easy to eat,
A perfectly palatable, quiet retreat.
We smile through the trespass, we tolerate pain,
We stand in the storm and apologize for the rain.
But the body is watching. The body keeps score.
Of every “I’m fine” when you’re laid on the floor.
It counts every boundary you failed to uphold,
And stores it as ice till your spirit runs cold.
Because the body eventually has to express,
The things that the mouth is too scared to confess.
It isn’t a fever. It isn’t a flu.
It’s the weight of the things they expect you to do.
It’s the ache in your jaw from the biting of tongues.
It’s the shallowing breath at the top of your lungs.
It’s the sudden migraine when the phone starts to ring,
Because you are the puppet, and they pull the string.
It’s the burnout. The brain fog. The heavy, dead bone.
The feeling of drowning while standing alone.
And slowly the universe hands you a brick.
It gives you an ultimatum:
Be a bitch. Or get sick.
Sick from the swallowing. Sick from the grace.
Sick from the mask that is glued to your face.
Sick from the endless emotional labor,
Of twisting your life just to act as their savior.
You carry their comfort, you carry their pride,
While slowly, and softly, you wither inside.
We try to outrun it with powders and greens,
With twelve-step routines and pilates machines.
We buy all the serums, the crystals, the teas,
While constantly bringing ourselves to our knees.
But wellness is not just a glowing complexion,
When your soul is starved for its own self-protection.
True wellness is choosing to let them be mad.
True wellness is dropping the guilt that you had.
It’s the courage to disappoint, courage to stand,
And refusing to shrink to the size of their hand.
But what is a “bitch”, to a world that demands
That a woman must live in the palms of its hands?
She isn’t the villain. She isn’t the cold.
She’s the woman who finally broke from the mold.
They call you a bitch when you say the word, “No.”
When you look at their drama and turn out the show.
When you say, “I am done.” When you say, “I am tired.”
When you sever the strings where your boundaries were wired.
“My peace is a fortress. My time is my own.
I am stepping away. I am guarding the throne.”
They call you a name when you guard your own gate,
When you put down the burden and drop the dead weight.
But being a bitch isn’t cruel or unjust.
It is honoring you. It is earning your trust.
When I finally did it, I didn’t turn mean.
I was just the most honest I’d ever been seen.
Because softness is fragile. It needs a high wall.
It needs you to catch it before it can fall.
If you leave your doors open, the takers will sweep,
And steal all the quiet you’re trying to keep.
But build up a moat, and the chaos will clear,
And the voice of your soul will ring brilliant and near.
The right ones will stay, and the leeches will flee,
When you finally lock up the door with the key.
So let them be angry. And let them be quick,
To call you a name when you lay down the brick.
The goal wasn’t hardness. The goal was to hear,
The whispering truth you’ve evaded for years.
You do not owe anyone “pleasant and meek.”
You owe yourself all of the peace that you seek.
So stand in the fire. And let the truth stick.
Be a bitch.
Or get sick.
