The Good Woman is Misjudged

When I was fourteen, I wrote a poem.

I called it “The Good Man Dies” 

because it was about how

the good man is always slain. 

Now when I am seventeen, I am writing a poem 

called “The Good Woman is Misjudged”

because it is about how

the good woman is always misunderstood. 

I wonder why drama ensues whenever 

women work under the same roof. 

Why do they have to bring each other down, 

isn’t men’s actions already enough? 

Why do they have to judge each other, 

and why do they have to look for a scapegoat 

among themselves? 

Why do the bad ones group and frame the good one, 

and in the end, why does no one believe the solitary? 

She stands alone, framed, drowning in false blames. 

She is the good one, but it is decided that she should leave 

because the others say they can’t stand her, 

and they judge the good one’s good actions,

they score them wrong, but the actions are good 

Are they blind? 

So I sit in my room and write another poem

about how the bad conquers the good, 

and I write because I want to control my anger, 

and distract myself from bringing down those bad women

who misjudged the actions of my mother. 

The Step

In the morning, when I wake up, 

And feel the wind blowing in through the window,

The sun streaming in, the birds calling out:

every creature welcoming the new day, 

I turn over and shut my eyes, shut the world. 

I want to embrace this gift of a new day, 

But something heavy in my mind settles in, 

And I have conflicting thoughts. 

I want to get up, go for a run. 

My body feels tired.

I want to take a shower, make breakfast for Mother.

She cooks better anyway.

I want to start the day with positivity. 

What good will it do when all my days are the same. 

I should take control of my life.

I should just roll with what happens. 

Only dead fish go with the flow, and I am not dead. 

Aren’t I dead already?

I am alive. I am living. 

I am numb, and I don’t have the drive to live. 

The first step is stepping outside of the comfort bubble.

Shut up, shut up, shut up. It never works. 

Just one step. One step and my journey will begin. 

The more optimistic I am, the more failure hurts. 

On some days, depression wins. 

I stay in bed, shut everything out, 

push everyone away, lay in bed

as if I were dead. 

On fewer days, I take that step. 

I get up. I push myself to run. 

I experience the flush of having

oxygen running in my body,

I feel thirsty, I feel my muscles aching

as if I were alive. 

Sometimes, it is that small step that matters. 

It changes everything, disregards life’s incongruence. 

And after, even the taste of failure 

is the mark of successful existence.