Don’t call it life,
when it’s my life you’re stripping,
my body, my rights, my voice you’re silencing
with hands that never held the weight
of this choice.
Tell me,
how is it your right to choose for me,
when you’ve never felt your own body betrayed?
When you’ve never felt the aftermath,
the ache, the anger,
when your life was taken, stolen,
and they asked what you were wearing,
Explained to you how it was your own fault.
How dare you call yourselves defenders of life
when you crush the life in us,
when you leave scars on our hearts
with your careless words,
your polished speeches,
your “righteous fists”.
Don’t you dare tell me what I can do
with this body, this breath, this heartbeat,
like it’s something you’ve earned,
like it’s something you know.
You legislate with hands that’ll never bleed,
never bear the weight, never know the fear—
you write laws with ink you’ll never feel burn,
ink that cuts us open, while you watch from afar.
Tell me,
how is it your right to decide,
how is it your right to choose,
when it’s my life, my body on the line,
when it’s my blood, my bones, my voice
you erase with a pencil?
