On Being a Woman:
On Being a Survivor

By Beverly Greene

This poem was inspired by and is dedicated to Roasanne, and all women.

NOTE: This poem is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without the author's expressed written permission.

The fear has set in
and jelled my heart.
I can't be me for fear
of being the cause
of yet more pain.
Nothing too short,
nothing too flashy,
easy on the tightness,
not too inviting
for the evils lurking
on the livingroom couch.

I have to keep myself,
keep myself from being,
from being a ripe fruit
ready for the picking
for any happy cherry picker
who mistakes little girls
for free samples
of the women to come.

Nothing too revealing,
nothing too pretty,
including me
so no one will find me,
find me wanted
and fool themselves
into believing it's available
to them.
Only to me.

I have to keep myself,
keep myself from being,
from being a mattress,
from being a little girl again.
No, nothing too inviting
or else I might give birth
from my womb of life,
my own life,
to another fault,
another injury
that goes beyond my body.
MY BODY, DAMNIT!
It's mine and only mine
and I shouldn't feel,
shouldn't have to feel
like I have to hide it,
keep it,
keep myself,
behind pounds of guilt
and fleshy shame
brought on by the fear
that I'll invite it,
I'll be the cause
of the covered faces
hiding in the dark
corners and allies
not behind an old warehouse,
but behind my own tear stained face.

Nothing too frilly,
I might be too attractive.
What a sick irony!
I need strong, loving arms
to hold me,
to heal me,
but how can I find them,
open, awaiting my arrival
if I fear being attractive?
If I fear being inviting,
even to a good, kind person
who wants nothing
more than I am able
and willing
to give.

No, it's not attractive
that I fear,
it's those who think attractive
is an open invitation
to try to violate, perpetrate,
penetrate my space,
my mind,
my soul.
My body I could give you,
sacrifice up to your sick gods
but my soul you can't have.
I'll fight you,
as I have been fighting
until my body is free
for you to have,
after God reclaims my soul
and uses His strong, protective arms
to cradle me,
the REAL me,
for eternity.
Yes, then my body will be free
for you to take and abuse,
but now,
now it's still mine.
IT'S STILL ME!
I refuse to share it
since every inch,
however many there may be,
hosts a part of me,
the REAL me.

So, go on now,
go away!
Hang up your blood-stained
picking gloves
and feel the fear
you planted in my
garden mind
filled with the weeds
of memories of you.
Go away!
Be afraid!
You were able to force
a merger with my body
but my soul ran and hid
in a safe, woman place.
You didn't get it,
you only wounded it.
My soul won't be conquered.
You might see my body
as a conquest for you
in your sick war to control,
another casualty
to the evil born
into your soul,
if you have one,
but my soul is only a prisoner of war,
held captive by the fear
but I'm a woman,
a brave soldier
and you'll only get
my name and rank.
A woman!
Private!
First Class!

Some women scream
"Take back the night!"
and my heart applauds,
but my soul is screaming
"Take back your life!"
No rally can help me
or the masses like me,
other brave soldiers
offering only
their name and rank
while their souls too
hide in a safe, woman place.
A woman!
Private!
First class!

So, keep the night,
if you must,
just keep it in the night,
keep it out of our homes,
our minds
our bodies.
Keep your sickened self
out of our day of life.
Yes, you can have the night,
the night of death.

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� 1999 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original poem.

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