the stories of women you write sonnets upon , or the ones on caricatures i consume. they're all fiction to me.
for the women i know are all looking out the window, wandering into endless abyss. or waiting on tiptoes - to be tied down in the bonds of 'holy' matrimony. when they were young, living on dictums of father and brothers was an unspoken, but frequently enforced trend. now no longer lean saplings, (who could be stomped upon with ease) but sprawling, majestic trees with branches chartering territories that remain forbidden for the tree. their offshoots are sheared (for they can't be crushed with ease) in the name of honour. to ebb out all the figments of rebellion, the tree might hold in it's gamut. still tamed in the garden, a new gardener comes in place. a slightly younger one, who comes with his own tenets. restraining her with a strap, in the name of modesty. he satiates himself by strangling last shreds of revolt her father couldn't slay. the woman is caged in bars of shame, all in the name of honour. yet again. why is it that the women i know only lessen with age? but the men smirk upon,only inflating their slyness. as the years grow on them.