Behind every successful man,
there is a woman —
they said.
In the shadows.
Unpaid.
Uncredited.
Bleeding quietly.
Erasing herself for applause
that gnaws at teeth and gums
and tastes like dust.
History knelt.
Poetry inked love letters in blood.
Revolutions whispered thanks in crumbs.
Because when a woman bleeds quietly,
it’s virtue,
it's discipline,
it's edible.
Then the chairs shifted.
The woman stepped into money,
into rooms with microphones,
into a life that finally paid interest.
The man stayed back.
Held the children.
Held the house.
Held the scaffolding
that success pretends it doesn’t need.
Same labour.
Same erasure.
Different gender.
And suddenly, the story screamed different:
"What kind of a man
feeds off his wife?"
There it was.
The ancient sneer.
Polished.
Rebranded.
Delivered by a mouth
that once preached equality.
And instead of silence breaking,
it multiplied.
Feminists didn’t flinch.
They sharpened language.
Folded it.
Explained it to death.
Until truth was dead, embalmed,
smiling politely at the corpse.
They didn’t ask why care became shame
the moment a man performed it.
They didn’t ask why sacrifice
lost its holiness
when it grew a beard.
Because truth is inconvenient
when it interrupts a good narrative.
Because calling out one of your own
is harder
than slaughtering an enemy on cue.
Convenience wore a crown.
Cause dressed it up.
Lies were whispered
until they sounded like commandments.
Equality, it turns out,
is optional.
Equality, apparently,
was aspirational.
Not literal.
Because real equality
is ugly.
It doesn’t flatter women.
It doesn’t castrate men.
It humiliates everyone evenly.
And feminism —
when equality finally showed up
without makeup,
without exemptions,
without emotional airbags —
didn’t recognise it.
Didn’t like it.
Power is intoxicating,
even when borrowed from the very people
it pretends to liberate.
Turns out, many didn’t want the end of hierarchy.
They wanted their turn at the gallows.
But dare they call it what it is,
a betrayal by a movement
that forgot
it was supposed to interrogate power,
not inherit it.
And in that convenient amnesia
rots the bones of feminism.
Because the fastest way
to rot a revolution
is not opposition.
It’s agreement
without spine.
And the one thing
feminism cannot survive
is its own reflection,
staring back and asking:
If roles are poison,
why does the vomit only spatter
when men swallow it whole?
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