I can wear a short skirt and a low cut halter top that bares my bosom's cleave, but I draw the line at seeing Afros and Hijabs. I can spend a night, or two or three, with rugged men and their inhabitations, all while glaring at their nail painting, dress wearing, daisy counterparts.
As a matter of fact, you might even catch me at the marches. I’ll free my nipples with a white tank tee and scream at the top of my lungs, that our bodies belong to us. Hand shakes with a stripper and prostitute, celebratory howls we echo.
Congratulations on the only fans, milk em sis! milk em!
Don’t tell me about no rape and torment, over there in foreign borders.
Or about pads and their scarcity?
Say it ain’t my place to comment… don’t ask me to comment!
Blame it on ignorance, as our eyes secrete white tears void of emotion. We’ll lift you up and cut the ladder beneath you with a hacksaw, while simultaneously searching for the culprit.
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Author:
Hans (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: July 1st, 2024 19:20
- Comment from author about the poem: This piece is from my book, 'Womanhood And Her Shapes.' I wrote this as someone who is half white and half Indian. Often times it is easy for women who have been Privileged to pick and choose the type of Feminist content they wish to support and ignore serious topics, such as period poverty, SA etc in third world countries.
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 3
Online)
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