to be a woman is to perform
to learn to dress for men,
to perform for the male gaze
to be asked by aunts,
“when am i going to get grandchildren?”
and to be told by uncles
that ive grown in all the right places
im not even able to look at the clothes
that hot hands had burnt through
touching, feeling, squeezing
remembering their hands on me
i don't want revenge,
i just want to take a shower
his lips curl into a whistle as i walk the street
“looking good, baby”
im wearing sweats and a hoodie
“smile more!”
make me laugh.
i don't feel like it right now, i say
“it'll be quick, please” he replies back
and i'm left feeling disgusted the next day
maybe i'll take another shower.
scrolling on my phone, a cute video of a little girl
I go to check the comments
“game is game”
“if she can bleed she can breed”
i close my phone, scared what this world has come to
my friend tells a story about how she got *****
and crazy enough, we all relate
and with girls we've never even met before
bonding over our **** cases
“don’t sit like that,” says my grandmother
“it's not lady-like.”
it doesn't matter how far i slouch in my seat
how much i manspread
even if its not lady-like, he’ll do it anyways
because he takes ******* as an invitation
even from a young girl
who doesn't even know how to count all the way to fifty
“dont tell your parents– it's our secret”
hands cover my mouth as i tell myself it's normal
this is what family does, what men do
and suddenly i'm too afraid to look at my own father
i talk to a guy, he's funny
and then he makes a **** joke
i thought you were one of the good ones
foolish
i live each day in fear
is it safe to walk out?
no, we can't live there
the ****** assault cases are high.
when will we ever be free?
when will women be equal to men
and not just equal to pleasure?
filled with rage, i remind myself
i cannot do anything.
because
to be a woman is to perform