Not a Feminist

You say you don’t call yourself a feminist.

A different kind of heartache, coming from our own, as if we don’t bear enough of that.

Tongue a razor very skilled in slashing 
I try not to let it take me,
I try to understand.

You say the word is too strong, too heavy, too masculine, too something, you just can’t put your finger on it.

Is it because it’s too much, you?

I mean the real you, the deepest part of your soul’s suffering, you?

Is it because you know once you acknowledge the word, all this becomes real?

The suffering.  
The long and not fucking easy path to healing.
The patience, the pleading, the re-educating of others.

If that’s the reason then I get it, I actually do understand.

Feminism.  
Your insides splayed out with pins like a frog in science class.
It’s a fight we do with our hands forcibly tied behind our backs.
Difficult and many times feeling impossible.
But if we don’t do something our eyes might be gouged out for the next round.