Monday, August 29, 2016

A woman rants

,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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