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Smothered
Perhaps I could be lovely
Standing in the shining, shimmering
Shadow of you
Perhaps you could love me
For my dull and passive
Point of view
Maybe for you, I could shrink
Writhe and wilt until I’m small
Shed the layers,
The bright white lights,
The pretty petals
That made me tall
Perhaps for you I could be
A rose, gardenia, a cherry tree
I could plant, reluctantly
On dried and desolate,
Deserted weeds
For a hopeless promise-
brand new seeds
The seeds of love,
I’d never see
Maybe for you I could quiet
My worn warm voice,
My simple sonnets
Hold the beaten,
battered hand you vested
To scold the earth,
The woman you tested
Perhaps for you my spirit bleeds
The one you crafted,
Caged-carefully
Picking and plucking
Those imperfect parts of me
The ones I love, the ones you loathe-
That empty dream,
A painted portrait,
Of the woman you need
Maybe for you I let it be
That smothered whisper,
Those tired, pleas
That harken cry,
That says to me
O tortured soul-
Set me free
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I've seen, many times in my life, extraordinary women dim their remarkable light to fit into a man's dark word. Why do we make ourselves small to make them feel tall?