Clueless Ink

I’m a woman.

I’ve walked through the world in fear.

Moments have left their mark on me.

I never chose to be strong,

I had to be.

And somehow, I moved on.

You know, it’s always taken fewer days

to move on from a random touch

than it has to process

how people in my support system reacted to it.

Because when a man does something,

a woman is often the first to say,

not all men.

She wants to believe—

not my man,

not my father,

not my brother.

But what scares her is—

what if her men

feel nothing?

No sadness,

no anger,

no care in their voice.

Even a quiet, manly rage would do.

Break something.

Clench a fist.

Show me it matters.

Instead, they use “manly” words—

Racks.

Chicks.

Hoes.

Words that turn women into things.

And on some days,

those words pull her back

to places she fought hard to leave.

That’s when she thinks:

Not my men.

They shouldn’t pick and choose the parts they like from the old definitions of manhood;

the power,

the control.

They shouldn’t leave out the parts that truly matter;

the protection,

the respect,

the courage to stand up when it counts.

That’s when she thinks:

Not my men.

Her men—

if something ever happened to her,

would move gently.

They’d listen when she’s quiet,

stand up when she’s hurting,

and speak when others stay silent.

And if they didn’t know what to do,

they’d try.

They’d read,

ask,

think.

Because if they’re not moved

by what someone did to her—

doesn’t that say everything?

To her, it says:

All the men.