To all the women before me,

In the end you were a dowry

Weighed on a scale

You are not a person

Because if you were

That dowry would be in your name

And you’d probably still have it

Clean

Cook

And trampled

So that when the next younger woman comes

Rather than lift her

You want to be her

And your eyes brim with something green

You see when we are empty and insecure ourselves

Putting others down

And wanting to be them

Generally becomes a habit

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