On What I Write

They ask me... why do I not write about men? What is it that I fear? With my kind of reputation, I cannot claim to not know men, could I? Not that they know me more than what builds my reputation. For they were the builders, the ones ensuring the facade hides my true self. Do I have to mention that they disgust me so? And so they despise me also. Not that I claim to be any angel, heavens no. That wall I built was only for their safety, don't they know? Why do they bloody their hands tearing it down? Why try peeking in when what you see repulses you so? Why bother digging if not all the way? Your hands are now dirty, why not wash it with my tears? And still you talk away. Why do I not write about men? Why should I leave you, you who make up the story mine? You gold nuggets ready for the digging, ripe apples ready for the plucking, nest of hens clucking, clucking, clucking... pecking at those who are different, insisting that your footsteps are the best when your feet are not even barely clean. Why should I write of a creature devoid of form? For I worship the country, every hills and valleys, every nook and cranny. Unlike you, you city lover, who praises tall towers, proudly standing but crumbles at the slightest quake. My mountains are majestic, why trade them for your so called civilisation? To your buildings, I do not admit defeat. Yet you claim to own my valleys too. I write of the sea, and the smell it reminds me. You see? I write of the life mothering every creature, you talk of the one with destructive nature. You can stay forever under your acacia tree, as the smell it gives repulses me. Though for what little shade it provides, I'd rather burn in the desert heat. Although you will see me running to cool my feet. Why do I not write about men? Why should I, when I am breathing, eating, seeing, talking them? They who see this keep on muttering, "And so she does not write about men, she has become one of them".