“We’re equal”, spat the woman to the man.
“Whatever you can do, I also can.
We’re just the same”, she said, with venom voice.
“The only difference is I have less choice”.
He looked at her with kindness in his eyes;
at which she said, “How dare you patronise
me with your condescending mansplain face?”
He marvelled at her rage and lack of grace.
All he could see was hurt and damaged love
and unresolved traumata from her youth
and infancy — her politics a glove
to mask her pain and camouflage the truth.
So many movements in this world I see
are evidence of psychic injury.
© Alan Morrison, 2019