To be a woman:

To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.  
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…

bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?

Who has he bled for?


He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.

You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.

Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.

Am I too much?
Hard to swallow, a bitter pill?
Am I raw and unprocessed,
Undiluted, concentrated,
Too spicy for your stomach?

Good.

Choke on it.

I won’t cut myself
To bite-size pieces.
I am not a convenient product.

My feathers are not plucked,
My hair is unshorn,
My feet are unshod,
And the muscle of my thigh
Is for kicking, not meat.

Do you not like the taste?
Poor spoiled glutton,
You cannot acquire it.

Find your refined sugar elsewhere –
I do not come pre-packaged.

lurking in the shadow
to hunt her down
to put all the blame on her
there’s a man dressed as clown

was it that “her clothes too short”?
was it that “she was too easy”?
reasons circled around
there’s a man dressed as clown

clown is unapologetic
clown is a predator
clown is a hypocrite
there’s a man dressed as clown

Gleaming from their natural glow
They walk
Eyelashes grown from pure innocence
They speak
Lips died red from tomorrow's sun
They stand
They're strong women: they fight

Mind crafted like an artisans glass bowl
But they don't shatter
Heart flowering like a rose bush
But theres thorns
Courage like a thousand burning flames
They stand
They're strong women: they fight

Gleaming from the tinted paint
I walked
Eyelashes covered but never healed
I spoke
Lips burnt red from yesterday's sun
I stood
I am a woman: I will fight

Mind broken like a cheap glass bowl
I'm shattered
Heart wilted like a frozen winters flower
Left with thorns
Courage burnt out like a dying flame
I stood
I'm just not strong like those women

I'm sorry for my hair
and I'm sorry for my nails.
I'm sorry for my cheekbones and my eyebags (oh so frail)
I'm sorry if I was too loud,
Or if I was too quiet.
I'm sorry for my stomach, will it be better if I diet?
And oh I'm sorry for saying sorry
And I am sorry for thinking too much... too little or too less
I'm sorry I'm such a mess.
I am sorry if I pick, if I scratch or if I bite.
I'm sorry for wearing heels, was I too short, was my dress too tight?
After all, I'm just a woman,
Saying sorry is just my job.
Because if I don't apologise for breathing,
Then I must be a snob.

I stand with you, Dear Comrade
Because, always do you stand
With the oppressed
With the marginalised
With the hated
With the silenced
And finally
With the ignored!

I stand with you, Dear Comrade
Because, every time do you take the lead
When it comes to fighting against injustice
Calling out media bias
Exposing the hypocrisy of the liberals
Highlighting gender and caste issues
Blasting the central government left, right and centre
And last but not the least
Making us all feel your righteous anger!!

I stand with you, Dear Comrade
For you, does my heart bleed
Because, are you an extremely kind soul
Who cares for humanity above all
Beneath your raging passion
I can feel your sheer compassion
You've been through hell
And yet, do you stand tall
Fighting endlessly and fearlessly for social justice
And striving your hardest for peace
Without even thinking of giving up
To you, greatly do I look up!!

I stand with you, Dear Comrade
Of you, forever will I remain proud
Whenever I have a bad day
It is you, who shows me the way
During my darkest phases
It is you, in whom I find solace
Even when I am extremely negative
You provide me the motivation to be positive
May Jesus bless your beautiful soul
And may you find your inner peace, above all!!