Three: Strength.

Strength.

It is supposedly good.

A man should be strong. Strong enough to help you with your car. Strong enough to play sports. Strong enough to hold in their tears. Strong enough to ignore pain.

A woman never wants a weak man. Strong men are the right men. They are the dependable men. They are the ones who can deal. With life, love, hate, problems. Everything.

Strength.

Even the way it rolls off my tongue is strong. It doesn't hiss or blend. It's T's are hit with an emphasis. It's G's are dramatic. It sounds final. Deciding.

But strength is quite cruel.

Strength is what shoves me against a wall. Strength is what kicks me until I don't feel. Strength is what puts me down when I'm getting ready to get up off the floor.

Strength leaks into every word uttered. It lends it's sound to the words it's behind.

Hate. Disgust. Worthless.

The power to give words, mere, common words, such an influence on my way of being.

I have no strength. He does. There should be balance, right?

I should be able to leave bruises, just like he does. I should be able to tell him what I feel.

But words don't come out of my mouth. Only whimpering cries. Like background music.

Quite the comparison; I am the melody, the pounding sounds are the bass.

And he? Oh, he is the lead singer. Words uttered with such feeling.

Am I the only one who has seen strength like this? Or is it supposed to be a woman's secret?

Is strength a weapon of tyranny, or is it my husband?

What is it?