baby has fire seething from her eyes,
gently green sweet with a look of vengeance,
She may be a temptress,
but not to be exploited.
A woman walks home alone,
like a Goddess in a picture frame
a vampire of seduction
in the 3 inches of our minds.
She hear the steps approaching
and her fangs quickly appear
stretching out of her mouth
No longer so innocent like youth.
This is the beginning of your end
as the path ahead now her's to bend.

i wonder how does she feel
to be loved for embracing her pinkness
yet admired when expressing her anger
to believe that she can do it
to be grateful for everything
to feel safe enough to smile
to be brave against people’s malice

She’s not taken seriously for her innocent smile, her round eyes, her rosy cheeks
She’s a child at heart; or at least that’s what her face says.

She’s not taken seriously for the curve of her hips, the swell of her *******, the length of her skirt
She’s an adult, after all; or at least that’s what her body shows.

Too young to understand the problems life has to offer;
Too mature to go under the radar of prying eyes.

Fragile;
****;
Sweet;
Fuckable;
A trophy to have;
A means to an end.

“You’re a woman now,” they tell you, but that means nothing more than getting treated like a child yet being expected to handle it like an adult.

Her face is angelic: a cherub, something untouchable and pure.
Her body is the devil himself
- the ultimate temptation, she’s told -
and that’s what she starts truly seeing it for,
it’s evil,
because why else would she get treated this way,
if not for her body?
she begins punishing it, because she’s the evil,
right?
at least that’s what she’s told.

and so the angel sees the devil for what it is,
and begins torturing it slowly
until nothing is left but skin and bone
and people saying
“such a shame, she used to have such a sweet face”
“what a waste, she had a beautiful body”

such a shame,
what a waste
of a body
for an angel to become the devil.

(A Modern Draupadi Speaks)


I go by many names —
Draupadi then.
Ananya, Zoya, Meena now.
Or sometimes just, “a girl.”
The one on the screen.
The one they spoke of in whispers.
The one who should’ve stayed quiet,
or stayed home,
or stayed gone.

---

They say —
Look, how late she comes home.
Look, what she’s wearing.
Look how she talks...
Walks...
Laughs too loudly.
Speaks too clearly.
Lives too freely.
And somehow,
it is always her fault
for being seen
at all.

---

Draupadi was traded once —
in a game,
while kings sat still,
watched,
and chose not to speak.
Now, Draupadis are traded every day —
in boardrooms,
in backrooms,
in promises that sound like love,
in silences that sound like safety.

---

They don’t call me Draupadi now.
I walk into courtrooms,
not palaces.
No royal sabha,
just white lights, wooden chairs,
and cold stares.

No one rolls dice anymore.
Now, they roll footage.
Loop my silence on screens.
Zoom into my tears.
Rewind my pain
for ratings.

And still,
no one asks me what I felt.

---

They call me victim,
but not of my own making.
They call me brave,
but only when I remain silent,
when I am invisible
and unspoken.
They don't know that courage,
true courage,
is standing in the storm
and not asking for shelter.

--

They say they respect women.
And they do —
just not enough to believe them.

And when I speak,
they say,
“Why so angry?”

Because I am.
Because I have to beg for justice
with every breath.
Because I still carry my dignity
in a purse zipped tight
in case it’s questioned again.

---

I am not here for pity.
Not here to be saved.
I do not need rescue.
What I need is to be seen.
What I need is not salvation,
but for the world to stop
turning my dignity into a prize,
a coin,
a wager in someone else’s game.

I am not asking for rescue.
Not for cloth from the sky.
Not for gods to intervene.

I want
a place
where no woman needs to prove
she did not deserve
to be destroyed.

---

I was never your sacrifice.
I was never your symbol.
I was never your choice
to make.

And when I speak —
hear me.
Not as a story to tell,
but as a woman to listen.
A woman who was
and is
and always will be.

I am not a myth.
I am the truth
that stands in front of you.
And I am still here.
Because I am not a myth.


©️ Susanta Pattnayak

How can they say what MY nature is?
That what I was born with dictates my temperament.
I must nurture and endure the pain,
Allowing my body to be distorted and bloated,
All for some husband to have a mini-him,
And to add to my constant laboring.
Men socialized to treat a wife like a mother,
Coddled and fawned over by her,
Allowed to come back from work to a home cooked meal,
While their wife's endless work never ceases.

I wear lace like armor, heels like blades,
Lip gloss sharper than your daddy’s blades.
I twirl in silk, then break your pride,
A sugar-coated storm you can't survive.
You wanted soft? I’m softly cruel,
Bat my lashes while I bend the rules.
You prayed for a princess? Oops, I’m the queen,
With a pink smile hiding something mean.
You say I’m “sweet”?
Then why are you scared to sleep?
I haunt your mind in perfume and pearls,
A girly goddess wrecking worlds.
I'm the nightmare in satin and glitter,
The pink poison that makes you bitter.
A dainty danger with diamond claws,
Dancing pretty while I break your laws.
My body’s a temple, my stare’s a spell,
I'm heaven and a touch of hell.
Celestial bodies dress in pink—
We’re everything you fear to think.
I sip champagne while I watch you squirm,
Smile so sweet while I make you burn.
Twirling through chaos in ballet shoes,
This Barbie bites—and you will lose.
I laugh like wind chimes, cut like knives,
Your fragile ego won’t survive.
You thought I was sugar, soft and small?
Darling, I’m the one who ends it all.
You wanted nice? You wanted tame?
But I’m the spark you couldn’t name.
Wrapped in pink, I run the game,
A girly flame you’ll never tame.
I'm the nightmare in satin and glitter,
The pink poison that makes you bitter.
A dainty danger with diamond claws,
Dancing pretty while I break your laws.
My body’s a temple, my stare’s a spell,
I'm heaven and a touch of hell.
Celestial bodies dress in pink—
We’re everything you fear to think.
Donald Trump thinks he’s bold and rich,
But he’s just a scared, misogynist glitch.
Spray-tan clown in a suit too tight,
Cried “fake news” ‘cause truth burns bright.
He built his name on girls' disgrace,
While hiding fear behind his orange face.
Talked like a king, ruled like a joke—
Guess what, Donnie? The throne just broke.
He mocked our rights, laughed at our tears,
But we’ve been rising for centuries, dear.
Your walls? We crush them.
Your lies? We hush them.
Your era’s over, pack your ties—
This is HERstory, and we cut ties.

Courage wears a pleated mini skirt  
Red tights and Mary Janes
Gold shadow in the corner of her eye
Courage wears a **** bra
Three shades darker from two weeks worth of sweat
A silken ivory blouse, first two—
No— first three buttons undone
Scrubs
Courage wears overalls
Rolled at the ankles
A nose ring
Butterfly clip and an old locket
Courage wears men’s boxers on a female body
Dr. Marten’s with the chunky soles
Carabiner on the (right) belt loop
And her grandfather’s leather belt
Courage wears gold hoops and a silver watch
White after Labor Day and off-white on her wedding day
A lab coat in the morning, a breast pump at lunch, and a little black dress later tonight
Courage wears a uniform
Hand-me-downs and Goodwill sneakers
Cheap lingerie and slutty stilettos
An orange jumpsuit
Camouflage
Courage wears a binder to church
A burqa to school
Box braids in the office
Courage wears the pants
Wears the shoe when it fits
Wears her heart on her sleeve
Wears pain like a badge of honor
Courage wears a kitten heel
Even when it goes out of style