The female body.
Just thinking of its maintenance makes me say, “ugh.”
So much to do just to keep it healthy.
They compare it to fruits—apples, bananas, pears, papaya—
To the world, it’s a blessing, a spectacle, a wonder.
But to its owner?
It feels like a machine that keeps breaking under.
Like a car that bleeds and leaks,
Leaving you drained, worn out, and weak.
Mammograms, Pap smears, pelvic exams—
They’re essential, but feel so out of my hands.
And what makes it worse—
When you tell the doctor it hurts,
They stare blankly,
Like your pain is a verse they forgot how to read.
They gaslight you into silence,
Say it’s all in your head,
When all you want is to feel safe instead.
They say these tests make you responsible,
A strong woman, in charge of her health.
But try wanting pleasure, or peace,
And they shame you for thinking of anything else.
As if bleeding monthly since twelve
Wasn’t already a battle.
As if you’re not allowed anxiety
In a room built to search for doom—
Where they flatten and probe parts of you
That the world calls “sacred,”
But treats as symbols instead of tissue.
You’re just trying to survive
With a schedule you never asked for.
And I don’t blame you
For wanting to skip it all.
Because even if no one admits it—
The female body always keeps the score.
And yet—
You still show up.
Not polished. Not boujee.
But powerful in knowing:
Though it is a lot of upkeep,
It is yours.