Wife of a Nation

You vacuum the carpet in the same direction, 
straight lines like ribs, hoping to be noticed, 
hoping someone sees proof of you, 
the ghost of your hands pressed into the fibers. 

You wipe the counters clean,
erase the coffee rings he left,
the crumbs he never brushed away,
like they erase you too—
your choices, your name,
the girl who once swore she would never become this.

The laundry folds itself.
The dishes disappear.
The floor never holds your footprints,
only his.

The laws tighten around your throat,
wrap around your wrists like silk ribbons
that feel too much like rope.
They say be grateful.
Say be quiet.
Say a man’s world is safest when a woman stays in her place.

You make the bed, smooth the sheets,
but he never pulls them back for you.
You cook, but he never sets a place for you.
You speak, but he never hears you.
You reach, but he never reaches back.
You give, and give, and give—
but he only takes.

You were raised on whispered warnings,
folded into the fabric of your mother’s sighs.
How love is labor,
how you will work for what they take for free,
how you will beg for what they were given at birth.

Somewhere between the vacuum lines,
the folded towels,
the silence they trained you to keep,
you wonder—
is this love,
or is this a cage?

And why do they only notice
when we fight back?