Yet to

I am yet to meet a woman untouched by war
not the kind with bombs,
but the kind with glances
that detonate dignity.

Yet to hear her say
she’s never felt
the bruise of a whisper,
the strip of a stare,
the compliment with teeth.

Yet to find one
who was not measured,
marketed,
mistranslated
into someone else’s fantasy.

Yet to meet one
who hasn’t been followed
by eyes that undress,
brushed by hands that pretend to stumble,
cornered by silence that screams.

Yet to encounter one
who hasn’t been interrogated.
“When will you get pregnant?”
as if her womb were
a public square.

Yet to know one
who was not made a scape goat
for the breakup,
for the breakdown,
for the boundary
she dared to draw.

Yet to cross paths with one
who hasn’t been asked,
“How do you balance it all?”
as if her life were a tightrope
and not a terrain
she’s carved with blistered hands
and sleepless nights.

Yet to trace one
who hasn’t been told what to wear,
and what it says about her.
who hasn’t been made to
feel invisible after forty.
who hasn’t been
talked over or
told to calm down.

Yet to see her body
treated as her own
not a project,
not a performance,
not a before-and-after story
for someone else’s comfort.

If there is someone out there
untouched by judgment,
unbruised by expectation,
unburdened by being watched
Reach out.

To show the Universe that
Women are not from Venus.
they were sent to Earth.

Yet to meet a world
that deserves her.