By Didhiti Kandel
A slave to your words is what you’ve made me.
Leering, your eyes, watch me while you drink your
afternoon tea.
You judge me by the length of my skirt, assuming that
I’m just another “chic” that wants to flirt.
Your mother tells me to dress properly, to cover my flesh,
pretending to save me from being a victim of abuse. Maybe you
should educate your son on how to respect women. I don’t
dress to impress and please them. Amen!
I am not Marilyn Monroe, nor am I Audrey Hepburn.
I consider myself a boring rock, constantly trying to morph into a gem.
Now you question the scars on my hips, wondering how many lips I’ve kissed or how
many men have touched my
skin with their fingertips.
You should know I don’t get raped because I “show too much of my
flesh.” Even women who wear burqas are being abducted. Tell me,
do you see them wearing anything less?
I am someone’s daughter, someone’s sister and
someone’s wife.
Do you even care? What if it was your sister or your
daughter? If someone dared to touch and tear them, I
know, with a gun in front of their doorstep, you would
appear.
What if it wasn’t? What should matter is that they’re a
person.
STRONG, BEAUTIFUL, INDEPENDENT, POWERFUL, INDESTRUCTIBLE AND A QUEEN. These are things I don’t find within myself when I see my reflection in the
mirror. I was just a slave to your words but now you’ve turned me into a killer. I keep
thinking, maybe I should kill myself because there are voices in my head that
bring me down.
Thoughts of his body plunging on me make me wanna drown.
Devilish whispers are creeping under my sea of grief.
Please tell me who I should kill.
Should I kill the man who raped me?
Because he’s out there just walking free.
Maybe I should kill the people who criticize me
because when I try to defend myself, they always
disagree.
Or should I kill my fears
because that shit never
disappears.