By Angelica Connolly<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have tried to define what it feels like to be a woman as a solitary conviction, but I am ignorant enough to think that this definition has not already been woven intricately into my locks of hair, veins under my skin, and the blood that pumps me alive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have not only understood my role as a woman, but I am hammered into chains, shackled to my womanhood, a vessel conditioned to bend, to yield, and to answer the unspoken commands echoed through my body.
Conditioned to smile prettily, smooth my legs, not talk back, be both the emotional burden and absorber, wear waterproof mascara that seeps into my pupils, to burn the tears away, and most of all, be thin as water, to satisfy any mold demanded of me until everything inside me has been sucked dry. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, I am simply left with my shell. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
My shell havens me after a long day of surrendering. Surrendering to the puppeteer, so the shackles hurt just a bit less. Because, after a day of surrendering, I can feel numb; the most peaceful emotion of them all. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The true definition of a woman can be found in her shell. Just like when you observe a dead Horseshoe Crab washed up on the shore, seized into the hands of a child, as they take it by the tail and whip it around like a lasso being swung in victory. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
In its final moments, the Horseshoe Crab isn\u2019t respected as a creature of the sea, but instead a fallen treasure, that fits perfectly in the grasp of a fist. <\/p>\n\n\n\t
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