The first boy who held my hand told me boys didn’t want to hear about vaginas bleeding. Younger me could smell the misogyny. Vaginas only meant to be fucked, breasts only meant to be sucked, mouths only meant to blow. It’s true, I know. My waist meant to be compared to an hour glass. My voice only meant to quiver, ‘Ugh, please, fast.’ Yet, I am silenced. For all we boil down to is sexual interaction. Not just me, my mother, sisters, friends, all quicken their pace post 8.30 in the evening. My mom telling me to wear skirts out less often. Nirbhaya and more, left forgotten. We don’t want to be another of India’s daughters, do we? So I wear my jeans long and wear my tops high. Don’t show my cleavage or a hint of my thighs. Don’t want to be mistaken for wanting it. Cause if I wear less, I’m more than just flaunting it, I’m risking it. Risking not my virginity, but my life. My hymen seems to be sacred, told to keep it till I’m a wife. If not, I’m a whore, a slut, a skank and more. Not as pure as I was before. 15 year old Laxmi didn’t like 32 year old Guddu back and Guddu dealt with it real maturely, he made her the victim of an acid attack. Laxmi could be your sister, your girlfriend, your cousin. We’re girls, women, human, not a burden. I ask my male friend to drop me home because his privilege will protect mine. I’m sorry dad, for I was catcalled in my uniform at the age of 9. This isn’t an all men thing I know. Trust me, I do. But the men I can trust are only a few. At the age of 12 my bra straps were sexualized. At the same time, we don’t get damn sexual rights. My aunt raped by her husband, but marital rape is fine. Pucker up, it’s a mad design, get in line. So what I’m trying to say here tonight is, I’m sorry I was brought up in a family where my brother taught me wrong from right. Where my mother believes in our generation to better the world. Make it slightly easier for each and every girl. Thank you. For I see men in this room. Reaching out for help, realizing the bane of the womb. Being saved by the sane of a few. We’re all collectively reaching out for you. Thank you.
I think almost is a pretty good and epic word to define us.
We were almost there, we almost made it.
Like Frank Sinatra once said, the pieces almost fit.
You almost loved me the way that I loved you.
You once told me that in the space of two years every cell in your body regenerates.
There will come a day when I can reclaim my own skin, when my flesh will never have been touched by you.
Dear Mr. Future Crush,
Right now you are frustratingly just a figment of my imagination, something I dream about in times of loneliness or boredom.
Before going to sleep I idly wonder what you’re going to be like, however that’s like trying to imagine a new colour. Continue reading “this modern love – Will Darbyshire”
I can swear, I can joke
I say what’s on my mind
If I drink, if I smoke
I keep up with the guys
And you’ll see me holding up
My middle finger to the world
Fuck your ribbons and your pearls
‘Cause I’m not just a pretty girl Continue reading “Pretty Girl – Maggie Lindemann”
One, the world is trying to kill you. It is trying to do this by stealing your voice. Kill it back!
Two, you are the best thing in every room. You’ll notice I did not say “the prettiest”. You are also the prettiest thing in every room, but that shit doesn’t matter! That shit is the world trying to kill you! Continue reading “9 Things I Would Like To Tell To Every Teenage Girl – Melissa Newman-Evans”