A PEN for TWO

PHENOMENAL WOMAN I am a woman, phenomenal woman. I am sick and tired, tired of being seen as just a sex object. I am not addressed because of my talents. I am not called upon because I am unique. I am not important, irregardless of me being a special being. I have a lot of potential waiting to unlock itself, pending till the right moment for the world to see. But NO! It's like there's something about me that just reeks of molestation. It feels like a stamp of 'she can be used' has been placed on my forehead. So everywhere I go, It always seems to follow me like an unpleasant odour. No matter how I  try to wash it off, the next moment I'm with a male, I begin to reek of it. It pains me, whenever a discussion is raised and a female's point is brushed off. The extent of this pain of mine cannot be measured. Maybe I'm taking things to the extreme, maybe I'm taking things too personal, maybe I'm too vulnerable for my own good. Maybe, maybe not...

  MY MOTHER As an avid researcher and writer, I've read and seen many people use many nice words to describe their mothers.  They have "loving" and "caring" mothers. In fact, one person loudly claimed to have the best mom in the world.  My mother? Oh, please. Spare me all that best mom talk. Not for once have I ever taken pride in her. She sat and watched. It's probably the best thing she's ever done– seating and watching. Actions other than those were murder attempts. A dark slim woman with high cheekbones and small tribal marks that can only be noticed close up. Her favorite colors are blue and black– the colors I'm always left in, after her brutal beatings.  She sat and watched after I was born, in a small stuffy room in the outskirts of the city. When my grandma cuddled me, prayed for me, took care of me, raised me till the cold hands of death snatched her away when I was ten. She sat and watched when I moved into her tiny apartment with the man ...