A screaming song is good to know, in case you have to scream
Are women ever really free? I have to hide my nipples with my hair when at home, a small price to pay when i don’t want to wear a bra- another pair of cuffs.
I have to walk with my hands by my side, so my hips don’t sway, breasts don’t weigh.
I have to look down and if I look up ,not meet another’s eyes, woman’s in disdain, man’s in a leer.
If I dare wear a short skirt, it’s not my scars I have to hide. Small price to pay for choosing not to wear pants- a man’s garment.
If I sneeze I’ve been too loud and will draw attention to collarbones jutting out, freckle on my upper arm, folds of flesh peeping from under my top, anything with skin and veins under the skin.
If I sneeze, I’ve made myself ugly and human like no other human and must be subject to one arm distances and backs turned in bed- as if another body in bed is God given grace.
I paint my nails like someone watching my frills and scoffing, like someone letting my red bleed into dirty fingernails in my vagina.
To tell a story is to say, this is the important story- in that case, choose your story wisely and don’t call your stories stories otherwise
I curl my lashes like someone watching my eyes flutter and not blink, gaps between my lashes unmanned territories.
I look quickly into the mirror as if someone will catch me look, my vanity may not go unpunished.
I eat in protest, eat a lot to resist slim waists, eat too little because protests are battered with varnish.
I can consume liquor/ I can’t. That but not this, this because of that and never that because this is what it is and not enough of that.
You may claim that of you, but won’t you ask different questions of freedom then?