poetry

I’m Sick Of These Men. {poetry}

 

I’m sick of the men
who say, “I love you,”
and don’t fully show up.

The men who cower and curl up
into a munchkin-sized ball
when the honeymoon phase
has long expired
and they run run run
from the trenches
where we stand together.
For this is where the real guts
of deep, soul-shaking, earth-trembling, limitation-bashing, past-lives shit, baby-making, high-fiving, farting-in-bed, mind-bending
kind of love begins.

I’m sick of the men who don’t know their worth.

The men who need seven beers to dance,
go deep,
show me the less appealing corners of their soul,
show me the dark and the muck and the gunk,
their fears,
and their wildest aspirations.

I’m sick of the men who are under the spell that vulnerability is a weakness and not a god-given superpower.

The men who wait
three days to call.

I’m sick of the men
with inflamed egos and small spirits
close-minded, spewing their doctrines
all over my magical world.

The ones who think their Summa-Cum-don’t-give-a-fuck-Laude
PhDs, degrees
Bank accounts
Vacation homes
Family last names
Will make me swoon
and make my panties fly off.
No, show me your heart,
Show me what’s inside,
Do you know who you are?
Are you happy?
Nothing else matters.
You could be cleaning up shit for a living,
But if your heart is pure,
intentions true,
in alignment with your purpose,
and you’re always trying to better yourself,
then I’m in.

I’m sick of the men
who complain about
their spirit-crushing jobs
and don’t chase their dreams.

I’m sick of the men who stare,
stare too long
when I walk my dog
by the playground.
The man dangling
two cherry-cheeked cherubs
on each hip
with a wife reading
the grocery list
into his earbuds.
He nods, “Yes, hun, I won’t forget the milk,”
His eyes glued to my legs and ass.

I’m sick of the men
at the bar
with left-hand ring finger tan lines.
“Oh, that? We’re separated.
It’s not final yet,
but I’m a free man.” Bullshit.

I’m sick of the men who proclaim,
“I don’t do social media!”
But while you were in the bathroom
your phone
dinged and dinged
and rang with pokes
and winks and tickles
and virtual fist bumps
from old lovers,
new friends,
some neighbor,
and the girl you messaged
while we were arguing
and there I stood,
in the trenches, alone.

I’m sick of men who aren’t whole
and think I’m the missing piece
to their distorted puzzle.

And men who don’t recognize
their inner king.
Therefore, mirroring back to me,
and not seeing
the queen I am.

And now
I give the finger
high and proud
waving it with force.
Unafraid to take up space
and be heard.
Because I matter.
And I will no longer
hunker down
and be small for you.

I will be heard
for all the women
who have experienced
some men.

***

Lindsay Dyan is an empowerment coach, a voice for female rebellion, writer, birth doula, and the pack leader of crazy dog ladies.

***

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