,Dear men
I am sick of the thoughts in your head
even if I am not responsible of their plantation
like rice with too much murky water
because you had voiced them out once
I am tired of judgment
measuring with a scale the worth of others
who walk besides me, even those who prod
murder but never scream it
I do not dare tell you that
a mirror has two faces
one reflects outwards
the other inward, like people who long ago stripped
their masks; our neighbor with the short skirt
who receives a reference to factories running short of
sewing material
our Hijabi friend who
has her hair shy
to suit suitors who
suit God by ill-taking those who walk under his skies
take them to be a variation
of destiny versus desire
like a lie told to make a child feel better
garnished with visuals, to please, to yield
Dear men,
stop treating me like I dropped out of space
onto your laps, in case you haven't noticed
.I'm not a waxed apple.
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