Do you remember when you said,
“It was her clothes”?
Your daughter looked down upon herself,
And mourned her beloved silk.
When you said, “Why was she out late?”
Your daughter closed herself off,
Within her suffocating tomb.
When you said, “It was her fault,”
Your daughter blamed herself,
For something that never occurred.
When you spat upon the woman in the newspaper,
Your daughter was stained by its smear.
Because she is a woman, you see,
She carries the weight of her choices,
From the day she’s born till the day she dies.
As we know, she is a woman who loved a man,
He turned and hit her, so what?
Whether she chose him or her family chose him for her,
She, being a woman, felt remorse.
She walked the streets, yet
As a woman, a man called her names,
She heard and walked, just like others around her.
One day, he became more than a man,
Or in some way, less, and he tormented her,
Because she was a woman, just a woman.
She had a family who loved her,
Yet she heard them ignore the cries of another woman,
Knowing that one day, she could be in her place.
But she was a woman, you know,
So she cried for the woman who would never smile
through her blue scars.
They assured her of her fate,
That she would never have to scream in pain.
But then they jeered and spat at the woman who was raped,
Blaming her clothes, her life, her job,
And the time she was out at night.
Because she was a woman, simply a woman.
They built hurdles along her path,
And called it her destiny because she was a woman.
Do you see that woman? She made choices,
Choosing the wrong man, the wrong street to walk,
The wrong job, the wrong dress,
Because she was a woman, you know,
Just a woman.
“I write so I don’t drown under opinions of this world.”