You never see the hidden scars,
the marks left by hands uninvited,
by voices saying “boys will be boys” while my voice is silenced,
a whisper swallowed by the same mouths that judge me
for what they took.
Is that justice? Is that your idea of freedom?
No, you’ll never know.
You’ll never know because your world isn’t stained with fear,
your nights aren’t haunted by footsteps behind,
by eyes burning holes as you walk down the street
wondering if tonight’s the night someone decides
that your body is now theirs.
I am not your object, your pawn, your game.
Not your pet to control, to condemn, to tame.
I am not a vessel for your morals,
not a canvas for your shame.
This body, my body,
is mine.
Not yours to shackle in laws,
not yours to bind in blame,
not yours to drown in silence.
