They don’t know their power. And they don’t want me to show them how forceful they can be. That more than being angry, they can be a force unexpected. I wish many things for them. In vain. They don’t want to climb ladders, but I want them to know how many other ways they can rise. And how necessary it is for them to lift their expectations, their hopes, their efforts. That their gifts should not go to waste. But they are mired in complacency, not seeing the month for the day ahead. They’d prefer to ravel themselves in the cyclone of he-said-then-she-said. And I lose power with each failed attempt to empower them. The future is not in their hands, for they have washed them–sanitized them–of all ownership. My hands are filthy.


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