Three's a crowd.
Two, on clouds.
One in Hell,
A frog in a deep well.

The location of the biological clock is complex.
Situated somewhere  between my body
and everyone else's business.
Turning my womb into a property
everyone feels free to voice their opinion on. 

As an elder woman turns to me and says:
"Now you're the only one left! Surely you'll be next." 
Pressure disguised in encouragement. 
One I am hesitant to slander, so I walk away, 
politely, as if it were just a simple fender ******. 

Remarks and expectations thrown at me.
Everyone's opinion picking scabs to wounds 
inside me nobody even knows exist.
Irrecoverable lacerations I will carry with me 
until the end of my days. 

Tik Tok goes the clock; perhaps it was a knock?
The message always the same: "Hurry up or you'll fall behind." 
I slowly reach for the instrument measuring my time,
I tempt my fate a little while longer 
by reluctantly snoozing my biological clock.

I am my lover's *****. 
I am not the object of his affection 
but rather a tangible stable entity 
he sometimes chases after. 
Much like a dog 
craving his favorite chew toy. 
Playfully rolling in a puddle of mud 
which coincidentally is exactly
what he thinks of me.
A property, only his to be owned
Even when he throws me away, 
I should never dare to dethrone him
from the place he still thinks he owns.
To him I am unclean,
forgetting that his own hands 
have soiled my soul more than 
the ones before him. 
He wraps his unkind words
around my neck, 
ruthless knots I can't forget. 
He speaks of growing old 
while he eagerly counts down
the years to my death.
Not knowing that with every breath
I now die a little less.
Because when he leaves,
the noose around my neck loosens
a volcanic anger flows from within me
full of realisation that he can no longer have me, 
because I now come at an expense
he can no longer afford.

I am the artist of the painting I call my life.
And every now and then,
the man I love  makes surprise appearances
in which, he sheds vivid colors of pain, love, lust and hate
on my bland misused body.
He does this passionately with his own
blood, sweat and tears
Creating between my love and his, colors that don’t exist
It is a thing of beauty, truly.
But at the end he always leaves
and then it becomes my vigorous displeasure
to blend the colors he leaves behind.
Turning back to simpler colors of life

I am human before I am woman 
I was not brought into existence with the sole purpose to give life
I will not fall prey to the social cube that men have made for women 
I refuse to be merely an incubator to a rotten society

I am human before I am woman
I am the ocean on windy days because some days I can't be tamed
I am the sky on continuous hot summer days because everyday fire burns inside me
I am the full moon because every now and then I am solitude 
And that is human

I have wrapped my desires into dreams and visions
They will push like sunlight through any and every societal duty 
that has been placed upon me even before I was born. 

My body will wither like the dahlia that it is
 and when the moment comes
 I will not fear the end
 just as I have not feared men
I would have known that I lived as a human 
and will find peace and comfort in my existence on this earth 
I will look forward to what is in store 

This is my choice. 
This is my refusal. 
This is my proposal to all women and men. 
Let us live as beings.