Hothouse

Femininity. A word as beautiful as a rose encased in glass for all to marvel at. Feel the way it effortlessly flows off your tongue. But when you lift the rose-colored glass, be careful not to prick yourself on the concept’s thorns. Like I did. Like all too many have.

Don’t:
	Raise your voice—proper ladies speak softly.
	Get a job—the kitchen is where you belong.
	Be too friendly—only attention-seekers flirt like that.
Do:
	Have flawless skin—paint the canvas with crimson lips and rosy cheeks.
	Cover your shoulders and legs—only sluts reveal their body’s secrets.
	Be friendly—women should always give men what they want.

He had no gun, no knife, no taser, no bat… but The All-American Linebacker embodied these weapons, erasing the need to carry one to coerce any woman into doing what he desired. Heart screeching no, desperate to fly away, my body followed his demands. Leaves forced to grow towards the sun, numbly executing a mere instinct.

He shoved me to the ground and pulled my hair taut as a rope in a game of tug of war. The teams: men and their lustfulness versus society and its expectations of what a woman should be. Men desire a seductive stripper sliding down a pole; society demands a perfect wife and mother, just another trophy on the shelf of their man. Femininity is constantly putting on a show, throwing glitter and shining a spotlight to distract from the noise backstage. Rose-colored glass divides the stage from the wings.

The teams tugged until sex and love split into two separate and illegal entities.
	Sex?—Abstinence is all that’s allowed for women.
	Love?—Toxic abuse is to be expected from men.

Love is the white dove; sex, the black raven, swooping down to steal your soul and leave you as a body made solely for the pleasure of man.

He shoved my face deeper into the carpet with one hand; the other propped himself up.

The raven ravished the dove and tainted the rose.