the sweet melancholy grips me

i should be used to it’s embrace

be able to shake it off

ignore the smell of roses

the gentle prick of the thorn

but it has roots in my every cell

tiny tendrils of sorrow

it permeates my very breath

she

her

no

is it wrong to assign a gender

to such intense pain

it feels sexist

misogynistic

but a man

he would carve the parts out

with a rusty blade

dispose of them

and forget they exist

a woman

she would make it last

unbearable

snake her way into every thought

make it so you cannot

breathe

without her

that it is agony

she is the air

and then take it away

leave you broken

and in need of her sweet release

so melancholy is a

she

as is joy

laughter

a man can build a house

but a woman makes it home

lust is a man

love is a woman

the seven deadly sins

him

the seven virtues

her

perhaps that is why man wrote the bible

and villified her

on soft vellum

he cast his sins as unto her

gave his rib

to create her

because she is sacrifice

and he is the blade

so i embrace her

for she is the tide

unyielding

and i am the stone

gently worn down

she seeks to smooth the rough

as he refused to budge

unknowing

she is getting what she wants

in the end

as it should be

as it has been

since the beginning