My mother pinches the side of my body
And says it’s lose, tighten it
It’s hanging out lose, tighten it
Tighten, tighten, tighten it like a lose screw
Turn, one. turn right
Two. turn left
Do this twenty times a day
It will tighten on its own
Nobody like it when women are lose.
It’s Saturday, I’m in a bus going home
Wearing my No means no t-shirt
And the man standing near me
Reads it as a yes
He simply slips his fingers down my skin
He again reads it as yes
He is searching for a treasure
And I can see the map in his eyes.
I adjust my shirt then
So that he can see the no in it
But all he sees is the cleavage
And I adjust my shirt again
And gets off the bus one stop ahead.
I raise my hands and she says that
My shirt is small
Don’t raise you hand
Don’t raise your opinion
Don’t raise your voice
Don’t, don’t, don’t.
I can see your skin
I can see your words
I can see your rage
I can, I can, I can. So shut up.
My feminism crumbles like an old abandoned building in front of my mother
And my stretch marks forgets to bleed milk
I am a colorless painting
All you can make out from me is the white borders
My feminism aches in front of my mother
And my poetry, they bleed.
But she forgets to see both.
So I endure men with pain and
Women with ache.
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