What They Don’t Tell You About Being Eve

clean hands, dirty mouth

What they don’t tell you about being Eve
is that you don’t even have to bite the fruit.
They’ll blame you anyway.

Growing up in a house that loved God more
than they loved common sense meant:

Pretty is obedient.
Holy is silent.
Good girls love doing dishes
and smile when boys pull your hair or your skirt.

It also meant pure white tights all the time,
hands folded like pressed flowers.
No elbows on the table.
No asking why he gets to play Mario Kart
while I stir the gravy.

Eve was made from Adam’s rib.
And I think I was made from my mother’s spine.
But hers was cracked and rotten,
so some of the rot, I hold on to this day:

How she called my handwriting beautiful
while she corrected my posture
with a slap to the spine.
It’s how she told me I’d make a lovely bride one day
after scolding me for taking seconds.

How she sang my name like a lullaby
when I was sick,
then told the neighbors I was lazy
for missing school.

I can’t scrub that rot clean.
It’s not about the rage that’s left,
Not the rules and expectations I can’t shake,
but the fact that sometimes
she meant her softness.

And that I wanted more of that.

I am Eve nonetheless—
Just not the soft one.
Just not the sorry one.
Definitely not the forgive me, Father one.

I don’t kneel anymore—
unless it’s in front of my boyfriend,
doing something a hell of a lot more fun
than praying.

I don’t beg.
Unless I’m being a good girl,
smiling when my hair is pulled the fun way.
But even then,
it’s on my terms.

If I want to bite the fruit,
I’ll have the damn fruit.

I’m Eve, just
stubborn, bossy, smart,
and too independent to be told no
by men in robes or gods in clouds.

What they don’t tell you about being Eve
is that she didn’t regret a goddamn thing.

And neither do I.

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