21st-century woman;
oh, aren't you filled with rage?
your men are dominated by lust,
fantasies filling every page. 

but we laugh at the quandary,
of 'new ideas,' because 
women have raged, competed
since we were marked with an XX. 
Men, always marked by the triple. 

We've seen blurred lines,
in spots where
we're objectified.

How do we rebel? How do we
fix the sickness that infects, 
with its grip on a 60% divorce rate,
churning attention, green profits
for those that don't give a damn
whether you're talking to a lawyer about
who gets the house, or a therapist
about why you just want to matter,
why you just want your husband to 
stop staring at the girl in the crop top
while he's holding your hand
and claiming to love you. 

the sickness of this world,
i don't belong to it, i never have. 
i've craved a love that maintains its lust within its own walls,
that finds the depths of attractiveness in what's been traversed together:
every hand of consolation, every touch since its inception, every joy of experience, every hard path contacted by shared boots.  

- m.j.m