Iena Apr 13

Okay, so I commute to school, to church, to the mall, to the grocery store, to the market, anywhere and everywhere. In short, commuting is my life. And like every other girl out there, I don't like it when I see men looking at me. More specifically, at my body--any part of my body.
      And one fateful day a few months ago, while I was on my way to school, there were these two men on a motorcycle who did just that. They kept looking at my legs. Yes, my legs. There were a lot of things they could be looking at, like for example, the traffic light which would soon be blinking green or the clouds in the sky that day. But why look at my legs? Did it please you? Did a college student's burnt-from-swimming legs bring you any pleasure?
      And being the kind of person who likes sitting near the exit of a jeepney (where the PWDs should sit), I should have known that it was coming. But then I didn't think it could happen to me because I always make sure that I look the least appealing whenever I go out alone.
      Another time I experienced this was on my way home from my grandma's. There was this guy sitting beside me and he wouldn't stop looking at my body. I don't know whether or not he did that because I was sweaty and my shirt was clinging to my body. All I knew was I needed to get away from him. Luckily, he got off the jeep a few minutes later. (Phew.)
      And ever since that time, I've tried to avoid sitting next to guys inside jeepneys. But only recently, my family and I went to the mall. And, by accident, I sat next to a guy. At first, I was okay because he had his wife with him. But then he started making ways to touch my legs--pretending to be checking the boxes they were carrying.
      I've never felt so harassed in my whole entire life. He wasn't grazing my thighs with the back of his hand. He really touched me, his palms and all. And I wanted him to go away. But I was helpless. I was stuck sitting there next to him til we got to the mall.
      I'm not saying this because I need attention. What needs attention is the things we teach the men in our society. Men should be taught that whether we're wearing dresses or skirts or shirt-and-pants , we're not asking for it, we're not asking for anything at all.
      Because, honestly, we don't dress up to impress others. We wear what we want because we'd like to freely express ourselves.

i.l

"if you can't respect my sociopolitical beliefs, then we're better off alone"

"you voted for trump? let's break up"

"fuck you, love"

"i hate egotistical and androcentric  people like you"

"love wins"

"you are one of the reasons why our society is a patriarchal piece of shit"

"i wear what i want"

"don't tell me what to do"

"put an end to misogyny if you want to be with me"

"girls can smoke and drink too you know"

"you don't need to be that religious in order to be good. you just need to be morally proper."

"if there's a temporary restraining order for people who insult gynocentrism, you'd receive tons"

"I believe in God, but not in religion"

i'll leave this here
s Veazie 4d

Dear Alectis,
You are
an ancient feminist
an empowered woman trapped in a world of patriarchy.

From the beginning you were dismissed, resigned to be chattel.
You were ordered, pushed, directed by the males around you to latch on.
Ensnare him in a your feminine web.
You're not strong enough alone.
You're just a woman.
Why should you-
Stop.

You find it all in Him:
Shock, love, strength
you are finally balanced, equal.
You are happy.
But Fate holds a bed of snakes for the forgetful and He is stolen from you.
Apollo cannot help you now, and you see only one option.

Once again a primal privilege arises,
But you must win, you must succeed.
You sneak away, so desperate to see the world, be the change, be the solution for once, you sacrifice yourself-
Hades.
You are floating, falling, frightened-
Stop.

All you know is-
Someone carrying you away, rushing-
Stop.
You are handed back to Him- you are limp,
helpless.
You are more than that.
Damn Hercules.

You are the distressed princess, the fair maiden, and still the hero of your own story.

Eugène Delacroix, Hercules and Alectis

“Son,
Bite your nails and make them rough like the burliness set beside you.
Don’t let tears fall like streaked sweat along the fabric of your skin
And speaking of your skin,
Let it dry;
Dry it with the blood of your heart so that men will nod and boys will bow to your feet,
The same way a curtain sways at the touch of strong wind
Let your strong limbs, your embedded masculinity rise within
And roar.
Take down all the boys and rise
Like a man.
Let your hands clash
Like a man.
Let your emotions die and your body live
Like a man.

Stop laying your hands on your hips while you speak.
Stop allowing your razor to cut strands off your legs.
A real man has hair,
Hair that flows like strings across the frame of your limbs
And your sides,
The space between your thighs
And speaking of which,
Let your emotions flow inside a woman for her to love you.
Love a woman like the woman she is,
And be a man like the man you are.
But certainly,
Most importantly,
Act. Like a man.

Show her what’s between your legs
And love what’s between hers.
She won’t refuse
And she won’t cut back.

She loves men.
She only loves men.
She is a girl,
And she’ll only love you if you act like a man.
You must act like a man.
You must dress like a man.
Strip off the layers of feminine odor
Take off that necklace,
Take out that mindset
Undress from that dress of indecisiveness
And appreciate what I gave you.
Clean up those cosmetics.
Clean up your act.
Quit quietly cooking that head of yours
Into the land of ridiculousness.
Change what those demons have created
And act. Like a man.”

But father,
What is a man.
Is a man someone who differs from those with different heads.
Is a man someone who keeps his hair short but his ego long.
Is a man someone who dwells in their own glory but refuses to acknowledge the worth of others.
Is a man tall?
Is a man short?
Is a man big?
Is a man small?
Is that a man who walks the streets in pursuit,
A cigarette dangling from his dead fingers.
Is that a man who feels the soft skin of a flower
Yet too ignorant and too lazy to care for it
So they pluck her while she’s still pretty
Then when bored, leave her to dry in the midst of a desert.
Is that a man who dares call a woman prude upon refusal
Yet easy when she accepts.
Is that a man who lingers on his own masculinity,
Entrapped in his bodily scent of hormones
Yet too ignorant to recognize the life he could have
If, just if,
He gave a look into the reflection of the water
Just to see himself for once.
Is that a man who makes false claims
Yet lives in complete hypocrisy.
Is that a man who has the nerve to defend lost causes when a woman speaks the truth?
Then I am not a man.
I am not a man.
I never was.

I never was confined in the stereotype you set aside for me,
Nor was a piece in the patriarchy
That was once built with honor
Now wrecked with the tomb of lies that all who were the norm,
Remain the norm,
And stay the norm,
Holding power over all for their own benefit.

I never was a man,
Never like a man,
And never will be a man.

If a man is all you told me to be,
If a man is what all you claim,
If a man is what you took from your father
And gave to your own,
Then I am not that man.

They weren’t demons.
They were me.

Some clits are extroverts, some clits are shy
Mine is the latter, I’ll tell you why
My clit is a hermit hiding in its cave
My clit is not sassy, cheeky or brave
My clit lurks in the shadows wearing its hood
But that does not mean my clit isn’t good
Besides being small, shy and demure
My clit is amazing, that is for sure
For what you see on the surface only by chance
Is just the beginning of its considerable expanse
My clit is powerful and strong you see
With roots that are long, like that of a tree
But unlike a tree, the roots bring only pleasure  
Pleasure achievable but difficult to measure
So don’t judge my clit by its diminutive size
Just fondle it about, to get what you prize

The  feminist movement trying to draw attention to knowledge about the clitoris inspired me. It did so at like 4:00 am. I got up and wrote it down, strike when the iron is hot.

You can choose to listen & react to the negativity, or you can just live freely and wait for them to see that they were wrong.
Actions are always louder than reactions.

When you want to be something, be it.
Don't complain about not being it.
That is all I will say on that subject.

Sofia Apr 10

i am angry
i am angry in a way that only a woman can be
because when the monsters pin me down with their stares
glowing yellow eyes peeking from the ravines
lust thick and alive like a pulsing monster in its own

i know
that my eleven-year old brother will never know of  this

i know
that my eleven-year old brother will never know what it’s like
to wear a shirt the way i do
i worriedly look down at my chest
careful not to embellish my flesh like an invitation
for the strangers i have come to know as ghouls
i wear my fragility like a cape
with a hunched back i position myself  
i rearrange my vertebrae into the art of shame
(the art only a woman can master)

i know
that my eleven-year old brother will never know
the skill of checking your drink twice and thrice
to check that the face i saw
through the murky liquid in that shot glass
would not soon enough be my own fairy godmother
pulverizing magic spells to put me to sleep in my own drink
in that deep slumber i would be a body
i would not be a beauty (much more a woman)

i know
that my eleven-year old brother will never know
of the color red the way i do
the way i bleed myself out during every phase of the moon
the way i bled for the first time on a playground
and my grandmother put a flower in my hair
telling me i was a woman
the way i know red is constantly checking for oil spills and archipelagos of every surface my temple would sit upon
(god forbid the world finds out i am a woman and not a mystery)

i know
that my eleven-year old brother will never know
that the way his eleven-year old classmates
think of girls as the plague
is the way i wish all men saw women as
(god please make me the plague)

my little brother will never know
how it is like to stand on a pedestal
and be knocked off every time i try to stand straight
how it is like to walk alone at night
and pray to god it is a werewolf howling not a man
how it is like to walk alone in daylight
and close my eyes until the stares and calls are over

i am angry
i am angry in a way that only a woman can be
because when my mother bore me she promised me the world
she promised me protection and peace
and that is what i tell her i have
(but we both know the world we are given)

i am angry because when i was five years old  
an older man looked me up and down
and took naked photos of me
(i never knew where those photos went)

i am angry because when my friend smiled for the camera
she had no idea that men began ranking her in their chatboxes
typing numbers to her name like a criminal
i am angry because no one respects my body for what it is
no one sees me for the womb that gives life
they dissect me like pieces to make them whole
while i lay on the operating table ripe for the taking
no one notices a girl is missing anyway
because women get killed everyday
and we still manage to live (that is the mistake)

i am angry because my worst fears are rape
and getting bitten by a shark
but i’d take an animal over a blood-thirsty monster any day

i am angry in a way that only a woman can be
in quiet disposition and polite smiles
because that is how we are supposed to be
aren’t we?

Sanjna Manoj Apr 10

I am told what to do, based on who I am.

I should always stay strong,
Keep my pride in mind,
My strength is my power,
I am an elephant.

I should never show fear,
Claws are to hurt,
Never run away,
I am a lion.

I am cunning,
Of course I taunted her,
My thoughts are always in one direction,
I am a wolf.

I can't be weak,
I can't be hurt,
I can't be the prey,
I am a vulture

I shouldn't complain,
I shouldn't cry,
I shouldn't give up,
I am a man.

Dont's manscriminate!!

One morning, I decided to ask people what their favorite myth is. I asked them what myth did they think was the greatest, and the one that made a huge impact on them. The most interesting one, the myth that would keep you wanting for more. Some people said vampires, some people said dragons, some said the origin of the world, and of course, most of them said the famous Greek mythology. And I asked some, what myth do they think is the most unlikely thing to happen, what is the myth that will never be real? And I was taken aback when some said their favorite myth was rape culture, followed with laughter. As if it’s a myth, as if it’s fiction, as if it’s something that isn’t real.


Rape culture is a myth. It’s not real. It’s not happening. Apparently, it’s just a work of fiction for some people. Apparently it is a myth when it’s happening everyday. It is a myth when you report it to them, and instead of asking “Are you okay?”, the first question they will ask is “What were you wearing?”. Because your skirt was the reason, your sleeveless top was the one that gave them permission. And when you told them you were wearing sweatshirt and pants, they will ask you “Were you drinking?”. When someone took away something that is yours without consent and you’ll be the one blamed. Because you were wearing shorts, because you were drinking, because you were just outside. When we teach women everything about not getting raped but we don’t teach men to simply not rape. When our bodies are nothing to you but to objectify. When you see us and think the word sexualize. When they asked you whether you said no or stop, and if you didn’t, you liked it. It was consensual. But you never said yes, and it’s not rape, right? It is not real when people shame the victim, when the help people are giving you are words such as “slut”, “whore”, and instead of calling you a survivor you will be known as “the girl who was asking for it”. It is a work of fiction when nothing happens to the rapist, or when some even refuse to call that person a “rapist”. You will see headlines describing him as an athlete, as someone who has scholarship, any good thing but rapist. It is a myth when the rapist runs free, but the victim is still suffering and constantly being shamed. It is a myth when the world thinks men who are getting raped are weak men, when they don’t think the consent of men are also important. When people continue to joke about something that can ruin someone else’s life. Apparently all of these things aren’t real, these things aren’t happening.



But how could one person even think that rape culture is a myth? That rape culture doesn’t exist? It’s not like the trojan war, because it’s far more chaotic. It destroys and kills people. It lets bad people win and victims suffer. It’s not like vampires who don’t sleep and suck people’s blood, instead this is even more dangerous than vampires. This normalizes something dangerous, something horrible. And the people who do it, who contribute to it, and who do nothing to stop it? Are worse than monsters in mythology. And why would we even call it a myth when we learn something good in myth? When myth teaches us something good in life? Rape culture is not a myth, rape culture is happening everywhere. When you turn on the television and see comedians joking  about rape, when people call the rape victim they know a slut, when people don’t believe someone when he/she reports it to them, when until now, rape is still considered inevitable. Rape culture is not a myth, rape culture is real, rape culture is happening. And they say rape culture is part of the reality that we have to face, but what do we do to things that bring us no good? To things that damage our reality? We do everything we can to stop them, to destroy them, to crush them. And that needs to happen to rape culture,  now.

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