Me too.
I think. How much do I have to have been subjected to, to be part of the subject?
How many times do I have to be objectified and ogled at till I am purely seen as an object?

How far do the unwanted touches have to go for the merely queasy feeling I get in the pit of my stomach to be valid enough before I call attention to this incident?
Why can’t you tell him to respect me, instead of expect me to be constantly vigilante?
Do you honestly think I’m making this up and simply being insolent?
You don’t see that he is forcing himself upon me in an attempt to prove he is not impotent?
You don’t see that he’s exerting power any way he can so as to not feel insignificant?
Even if that means my mind’s imprisonment.

Long after my body has been released from captivity.
And don’t fucking tell me this is simply a natural proclivity that’s basically evolutionary.
When 83 year old women like Sonja Fischer are being repugnantly raped, as the perpetrators strip them simultaneously of their cashmere cardigans and dignity, whilst they barely have clarity.

And that is in California. It doesn’t only happen to India’s daughters, but all of Gaia’s daughters.
Why do we call these lines blurred when all you need to do is open your eyes and the haziness will sharpen like a knife?

If you’re a woman reading, you won’t be surprised. If you’re a man, welcome to our world. I’m hoping this poem won’t be as relevant in the future, but that’s just my optimism. The niggling realism tells me there’s more than a few lifetimes a go until then, sadly, but at least the dialogue is opening up.

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