Everyone told the little girl, “womanhood is divine,”
But no one saw the scars carved beneath her spine.
Red marks below her breast from bra's elastic and lace,
A monthly red war etched across her face.

She bleeds in silence, yet is told to smile,
Sit with grace, hide the pain, and act fine awhile.
She writes her exams through the stabbing cramps,
Still the world thinks she’s made just for ramps.

Her clothes become society’s claim,
But she says, “F** it,”* and run towards her aim.