The way I look at your tender eyes, following each movement of my curves.
I wish I’d curled up sooner or later when my friend walked away.
Save the door for last or not a minute afterwards when the moment arises.
The same man that looked up at me with those dark brown eyes, was the same man who put his hands on me.
He told me something’s and yet I blame myself partially for the mistake I chose in choosing him.
I wasn’t a woman for sakes of my own story to live and to be treated as if I was different from the rest.
As if the herd I followed in breakfast line wasn’t the same afterwards.

Same goes to my sister, my niece, my old aunty and mother.
All women too I’m afraid of the power he holds over me.
He pulls me down on the floor and stumbles upon me every other sentence.
He looks at me with his dark eyes, as if I already figured that he had no love in his eyes.
The glory of wars we fought together, objects being thrown around and the arguments.
I only landed as an object in his eyes and day by day I filter myself to be seen as black and white.
To not stand up and be guided by example, I look like I am terrified of the life I live in grace.

I move through the gardens one day and the next day.
He grabs my hair wanting me to look at him from day one when I laid eyes upon him.
Some women look at men as if they’re inexperience or harmful graved with pain.
Hearts covered in violence and blood, wife’s bleeding on the ground helpless.
Called 911 and they didn’t help me instead the officer came and went.
Believed my story one time and switched perspectives, believed the husband of mine.

I look at women today with sorrow eyes, as if they stopped guiding me.
Instead they stopped talking to me, told I was weak.
Shut the clothes line down for me only to be seen as a fraud.
A liar and a truth-teller all at the same time.
One man in one’s life..
You let that define your whole experience with men.
I don’t blame you, but there’s more to men than just one human.
I believe in you and your story will hold truth to my heart.