We joke endlessly about the hyperemotionality
of female relationships-- we are crying, constantly
confiding, craving of reassurance and absolution--
so that the crime, to you, is my grief or my sorrow
but not the ways in which it was created.
If I am obliged to confess to you all
of what you'll term my sins-- including
propping up all men, and other failing systems--
then so be it, since the men are not going anywhere,
and your favorite pasttime is overseeing
and overhearing all of my Hail Marys, full of grace.