Young Writers Society

So you think me a woman. What does that mean to you? What does the dew of my flesh, the curve of my hips, the title I bear on my skin mean to you?

Most days, I don’t even know what it means to me. Yet, somehow you’re comfortable defining it. To write out what being a woman is in red ink. You tell me what to do, what to wear, how to speak. You tell me to be afraid. You want me to be afraid.

You stalk us in the streets, put handprints on our chests, stain our thighs with bruises. You stand on our lungs, grinding us into the dirt. You laugh as we choke, blood bubbling on our lips, your fingers dug in our necks.

And you tell us to cry. “Choke on your tears, pretty little dolls. Cry because we fractured your porcelain, grinding your glass skin into powder.”

But I am not sad, not mourning for the cracks, not trembling in fear. I am angry. My blood is boiling, and the steam is coming out of my throat like the flames of a dragon. I want to tear apart your world and set it ablaze. Soak in the flame and soot to gain back the power you stole.

You have taken everything from us: our dignity, our pride, the rights of our organs. You monopolized our flesh and bone, used us for sport like we were Pitbulls. We mean nothing to you. We are playthings and objects, best when bought new. Our scars disgust you, even though you are the ones who left them. You are angry at us for your mistakes.

Somehow, everything is our fault. You can stalk the streets with your smirk and swagger because no matter what crimes you commit, it is because of something we did. And on our heads is the blood you spill and paint on the sidewalk because you made us the canvas. And when you draw our final breath with your hands, you blame us for breathing in the first place.

You laugh again when we shout at your false accusations. “It’s because of how you were dressed, pretty doll. It’s because you were alone. It’s because you were drunk. Because, because, because.” I’m tired of your because’s, of your excuses that you gag us with. I’m tired of taking the fall for your actions.

You think us weak. That’s your problem; you think us brittle-boned and stupid. Forgetting we are the bearers of sharp eyeliner and even sharper nails. Forgetting that as children, we are trained to stick our thumbs into your eyes because it’s the only way to keep our mothers from losing a child.

But I suppose you laugh at that too. “Fight, pretty doll. Fight because if you don’t, you’ll end up the next broken face on the news.” So we do; we fight and win, and you hate it. And you scorn us even more for doing what it takes to survive.

But I guess that’s the price of my sex. You hate me for existing, for the organ inside of me, the hormones in my veins. You hate me because you’re told you should. Because you think we’re enemies. Because you fear the power in the traits you call weak.

So you think me a woman. Maybe I dress like one, talk like one, whatever that means. But that doesn’t mean that the knife in my hand is any less sharp. And if you think so, if you underestimate my wit and words because of my body, then your death is on your hands. And there will be no one else to blame when the dust settles.