There she is; again,
Feeling like a stray dog with an open wound.
Any dirt or fly can self-invite to sit on,
Or even settle down.
The same fly that indulged in faeces a while ago.
The only thing she is able,
Is to stare and shoo,
And in vain.
For who is to bother,
What a woman feels.
‘Cause the ‘beasts’ of this world,
Can do things as they please,
All a woman can, is feel vulnerable,
And shoo them; again.
For him, they are ‘innocent’ pleasures.
But for her, she feels violated, desecrated.
He thinks it’s his prerogative,
To tickle; To tease; To touch;
To do whatsoever he deems right, or even wrong.
As if she is a fallen withered flower,
Even when the flower could actually voice the 2-lettered word,
It doesn’t matter, does it?
For, does a woman have feelings at all !?
Or even a soul, for that matter?
To him, she is some food left open,
To taste at least, if not devour.
He may brush his body past hers; deliberately.
Lay his hands on her skin; repulsively.
Anywhere; Any place; Anytime.
The Bus; The College; The Office.
Even when she says NO,
It doesn’t matter, does it?
He can still touch her,
Inappropriately.
It’s not a rape. It’s just a grope;
It doesn’t matter.
