Little Men

A tiny woman in what they call a man’s world.

A tiny woman who couldn’t give a fuck about men’s perspectives.

“Because you know, woman, we know better.”

“History has known so many great men. Why should the status-quo change now?”

A tiny woman who was fed up with all the shit happening around her.

A tiny woman who was looking forward to completely break free from all the bullshit.

“Come over here, doll, I will show you how stuff gets done.”

“Put on you red dress and heels and join me.”

The tiny woman ran to her bedroom and grabbed a scissor and cut her hair roughly. The long, blond locks fell desperately from her head.

She grabbed a black shirt and some shorts and a pair of boots and jumped out the window.

She ran. As fast as she could.

The adrenaline was pumping through her veins. The fight or flight mode had kicked in. Hard.

Her companion entered their room and didn’t hear a soul. Only the wind whistling between the open windows.

He started crying. (I guess egos when they crash, they crash violently.)

As he went in to the bathroom, he saw the dead strands of hair scattered. He started shivering uncontrollably.

She was flying through the excited motions. She set herself apart from the weakest link in her life.

He was a man that loved to have the appearance of control. He loved to pretend he was strong. He loved to play games he thought only he would understand.

But he needed someone. And she needed no one.

He needed reassurance. She needed motherfuckin’ peace.

That man would have killed her. Not literally as he wouldn’t have the guts to. But he would suck out her soul as a true sociopath does.

She wouldn’t stand for that shit. No, not anymore.

She left him a note which he opened, sobbing.

“You put on that fucking dress and heels and shake your ass, while you’re at it.”

(Being a man is so complicated these days.)

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