Here is a poem. It is a work in progress.

I was going to make you dinner.
I was going to make you dinner because I know you had a long day, and because you're tired, and because I love you.
I was going to make you dinner... but I didn't.
I didn't make you dinner because I remembered that it's the 21st century, and women don't belong in kitchen.
Never mind the fact that I like to cook.
I didn't make you dinner because then you might expect me to make you dinner tomorrow, and I might not want to make dinner tomorrow.
I didn't make you dinner because I couldn't figure out whether it was what I wanted to do for you or what society wanted me to want to do for you.
I wanted to make you dinner, but I didn't.
So I thought maybe we could go out to eat.
But we can't.
I thought maybe we could go out to eat, but then I remember I'm a little short on cash right now.
And I know you would buy me dinner, but then I would feel like I owe you something.
And I know you wouldn't expect anything, but I would feel like I owed you something, and it wouldn't be a coincidence when I felt like going down on you later.
Never mind the fact that I like giving you head almost as much as I like to cook.
And never mind the fact that I might have been in mood anyway.
The point is, men are traditionally the bread winners, and if I let you buy me dinner, I'm re-enforcing that role.
And the point is, women are traditionally responsible for dinner, and if I cook you dinner, I'm re-enforcing that role.
And the point is...

I guess we're both gonna starve before I figure out how to be the domestic feminine goddess I really want to be.