i’m so sorry
that no one saw the dangers
of a sleeping sixteen-year-old
being kissed by strangers.

i hate so much hating myself
my skin
my arms
my waist
my legs
and all my body
'cause I'm a living, breathing creature
who can walk and talk and think and feel
my body works perfectly
and it has done so much
just to keep me alive.
my body loves me,
so why can't I love it back?

i hate how no matter how we're born
we are taught to despise
every bit of ourselves.

i hate how we learn to hate food
while so many are starving
for real reasons.

i hate this tortuous looks in the mirror
and this never ending cycle.

i hate how we try so hard to
make our outside look pretty
while we empty our insides.

i hate how our society
damages young girls and boy's brains.
i hate how they'll never feel whole
and proud of themselves.

i hate how socially acceptable it is
to do whatever it costs to lose weight
and i hate how we applaud
when people do.

i hate how we think it's okay
to comment in other people's appearance
as if it was meant for us
to define what they should look like.

i hate how hypocrites we are
talking about how wrong all this is
but reproducing this all the time.

i hate how no one actually cares
until it's too late.
and i hate how we're all broken,
pretending to be okay.

Age 4, Your father broke your heart before any boy had the chance too.

Your life will be completely different without a father

Age 5, No one to call you princess

You cry when you see your friend's father call them princess

Age 6, No one to hug you when you cry from bullies

You hate going to school

Age 7, No one to tell you "I'll beat up every guy that hurts you"

You don't get to laugh when he says that

Age 8, No one to tell you are beautiful

You hate your body and think your fat

Age 9, No one to tell you "It's okay"

You cry yourself to sleep every night

Age 10, No one to tell you, "You are perfect"

You think you are the ugliest person in your school

Age 11, No one to tell you, "You are too young for boys"

You get your heart broken over and over too young

Age 12, Your father is not there

You miss him and ask yourself why he left

Age 13, Being told you have "Daddy Issues"

Age 14, No father to tell you, "You look beautiful without make up"

You beat your face with make up

Age 15, No father to say to your first date, "If you hurt her, I will **** you"

You get hurt

Age 16, No one to dance with you when they call in daddy daughter dance on your sweet sixteen

You ask yourself why he left again

Age 17, No one to tell you to change out of that clothes because he knows guys couldn't resist

You might get *****.

Age 18, No one to tell you, "My little princess, you have come so far, I am a proud father"

You see all your friend's father telling them this and miss you

Age 19, No one to warn you about ***** boys

You have to fight off a guy

Age 20, No one to tell your boyfriend, "I have a rifle, I am not afraid to use it"

You don't get to say "Dad!!!"

18+ age, No one to walk you down the aisle

You tell yourself, "I made it, I made it through the good and bad"
You have a husband or wife or neither, you made it without him.
You made it through the tears, the heart aches, the pain of missing him. He missed your whole life, you realize he didn't deserve you or seeing your life grow.

Fat.
The word falls from your lips
like venom.
I know your throat burns every time
you say it.
I see the tears you try to brush off.
Fat.
Because what could be worse, right?
You could be mean,
or selfish,
or violent.
But no, you had to be
Fat.
If only you knew the years I've spent
learning to love every single inch of me,
teaching myself that "fat" is not a
curse word.
Years spent undoing long nights
that I've stayed awake,
sobbing,
praying to every god I knew
that I could wake up and be
skinny.
You tell me I am beautiful.
You promise me
that you have eyes for
no one else.
But I know your eyes lust for
thin.

Do you ever feel so ugly in your own skin?
Where you pinch and grab at your physical reasons to hate yourself
All the taunts and cruel phrases relive in your jiggles
You fad diet yourself into comfort,
Only to be reminded of your deep scars as you catch a glimpse in the reflection
You strive for societal perfection as you let yourself slip into a cracked version of someone you were
The fear that happiness is gone for good
And this is all that's left

You, creature of
heaven.
Object of my
desire.
Soft voice,
rose lips.
Body shaped like
ocean.
Your curves: the waves.
In you
the storm and
the quiet.
Sunrise and
sunset.
Sunshine and
rain.
Childish and
grownup.
And all in one word:

W o m a n

girls are soft as wolf's fur
subtle as a starburst
fragile as a porcelain knife
and we sting, we cut, we bite;

girls were born with strings tied to our wrists
and we'll gently drag you down;
you will lean in for a kiss
and we'll steal your paper crowns.

What's in a name?
Let me tell you a story,
Of how my life changed,
And how my name changed,
Every time it appeared on the newspaper.

Replaced by a pseudonym,
Something to do with courage,
I was namelessly admired, slandered, and debated over,
Media’s Exclusive Coverage!

The newspaper headline read in big block letters:
“14 YEAR OLD GIRL SAVES SIX KINDERGARTNERS”,
That made me smile.
Just maybe I thought we had come that extra mile.
But no for I noticed,
My name was changed,
And the Printing Department was not at fault.
That’s just how my country dealt with ****** assault.
I never asked them to hide my name,
They had presumed, of course, that I was ashamed,
Of saving lives. It took me a minute to remember,
I had called Jyoti Nirbhaya for years.

I wanted them to know who I was,
Hiding I thought was for criminals,
Until I realized that I WAS one when,
On returning from the hospital I saw,
Pain in my mother’s,
Anger in my father’s,
And disgust in my relatives’ eyes.
No idea why a part of me had come expecting pride.

In school my “friends” guiltily refrained from talking to me,
Neither were my teachers too happy to see,
That I had returned to the same school,
Bringing with me my painful story,
Which I had mistaken as one of glory.

And when I went to receive the “Bravery Award”,
Only the trophy didn’t read compensation award.
They looked at me with too kind eyes calling me a “hero”
Their smiles told me they meant violated.

As I received the award,
I saw they were trying really hard,
To not let it show,
That they wanted me to know,
The difference between:
Bullet marks on the chest to bite marks on the breast,
Blue around the eyes to blue around the thighs,
Scratches on the fists to cuts on the wrists,
Loud screams in the cold to muffled screams against the cold,
The red of the torn ligament to the red of the torn *****,
The difference between a soldier’s and a victim’s blood.

And suddenly I felt as if I was,
The rescued,
Not the rescuer,
The maimed,
Not the fighter,
The oppressed,
Not the rebel,
The hostage,
Not the warrior,
I thought myself to be.

What’s in a name?
Apparently, a lot.