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Slave to your words

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


What if it wasn’t? What should matter is that they’re a


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


Or should I kill my fears

because that shit never


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