a good woman

I'm a woman, and it's hard to know how to be one. I don't know, and no one seems to be able to tell me. Except for the men, that is.

Women it seems, ought to be graceful and diligent. Even tempered and wild at once. Tall and fit, curved gracefully. That word, gracefully. They dress well, carry themselves with distinction. Coy and honest in one breath.

They should be beautiful, they should be simple, they should be strong.
They should drink wine and point their heeled toes downward. They should have beautiful backs and golden arms and legs. Those legs, long and slender.

The picture painted is beautiful. That must be a woman.

And it's a beautiful picture until I remember why I wanted it painted. To compare- and I scratch my head through my tangled hair as I look at it. Glance at the mirror and again at the beautiful portrait before me.

And I could tell you all the ways I'm not that woman, but there's really no question to that.

I must be a different kind of woman, one who isn't filmed much or mused over. And much of me aches at that, trembles at the injustice, spits at the beauty and gracefulness of the portrait.

But maybe there is a different kind of woman I can be, and be well.
It's just a good woman. I want to be a good woman.

Tonight, the deepest roots I've tangled with, he opened his mouth wide and told me I was good. Lying, foolish, wrong, he may have been. But the words were spoken, and words hold more in them than sounds and spaces between teeth. Speak something, and you will it to be true.

So maybe that's all I want to be, maybe I can learn to be good.