When I began to bloom and my eyes betrayed the butterflies that thoughts of a man trapped in my belly, friends and loved ones reeled off the rules. “Do not love a man too much. A man loved more than he loves his woman soon becomes spoilt and throws her to the pigs”, they said. When they read my love poems, they shuddered and warned me to never make the first move.
I became that lady who loved with too much worries. Worries of loving right and not losing the one I love. Worries of loving him right but losing myself in the process.
I began to love from a distance. Emotionless and too rigid, I carefully crafted my expressions so that I never came off as tender. Endearing words became the scrumptious dish I was forbidden to serve.
New advisers emerged and sent me on the journey of sobriety and passion. I was to never show displeasure as that scared real men away. I was to never say no because I was expected to clutch tightly the trophy, which was my man.
So, I have decided to love without thinking of what another’s rules say. I no longer care if a woman should hold back when she desires to be in the arms of her man. I frown or scold when I am angry. When I am afraid, I wrap arms across his waist, place my head on his chest and shiver unrestricted as he strokes my hair. I do not put up a strong face to prove I am a liberated, independent woman. I have become me, as true as I am, loving as my heart and head direct.