Not Our Fight, But It Is!

by: E.M. Burlingame

There’s a war inside every woman, been raging since the first dawn broke over this rotten world. It’s a filthy, mean war, clawing at them from the inside, trying to break them down to nothing. Some dark, twisted crap gets in their heads—messes with their hearts, screws with their minds, turns love into a pile of ash. It takes their innocence, their joy, and grinds it into fear, into doubt, into a big empty nothing.

Look at Jane, say. She’s got scars you can’t see, fights she’s still losing. Every morning she’s up swinging against the weight of it all, trying not to drown in the shit female society keeps pouring on her. There’s tens of millions like her—mothers, sisters, daughters—each one battling something ugly, something that won’t let up. Winner take-all, female versus female genetic competition.

And us men? We’re supposed to be the big damn saviors. Stand tall, throw punches, bleed out if we have to, for the women we’re tied to. For the love we need like air. But let’s not kid ourselves—most of the time, we’re screwing it up. We don’t get it, we don’t see, we can’t understand. So we do nothing. Half the bastards and bitches out there are the enemy, not the rescue squad. Still, when one of us gets it right, when we actually step up and help her fight, it means something. Tips the scales a little.

Me, I’m no hero. I’ve fucked up more times than I’ve fixed anything. Been just as blind and dumb and stupid. Stumbled through life leaving little behind. But I get it—it’s what we’re supposed to do. Try. I’ve tried and try. Swinging at the darkness even if it’s a long shot. Because if we don’t, we’re just another weight dragging them down. Drug down in a fight isn’t ours, as men. But it is. Like the species depends on it.

So, the war keeps going. Women hating women. Twisting knives in one another’s backs. It’s nasty, it’s endless. Our women keep fighting these battles, chained up in despair, clawing free, or surrendering to their captors, doesn’t matter—they’re in it. And maybe if enough of us sorry sons of bitches stand up, strong beside them, not against them, they’ve got a shot. Or at least we can say we didn’t just sit there and watch as our species ended.