I have a lot of questions that need answering
What is it about me that makes you feel I’m not whole
Not until you’ve laid me apart and with a blade scrapped parts of me as I yell?
That as I bleed and plead you finally declare me a woman because prior I wasn’t woman enough?
What is it about my pain that makes is so incomprehensible?
That to describe my pain I have to rephrase it to your capture your imagination,
to make you imagine it happened to your mother, your child , your sister and if that fails then your friend and yet all that in vain?
What about when I say no, please stop , that hurts, I’m in pain
Why do you take those words to mean go on, I need more , I haven’t had enough?
What about that, gives you power when the fight is rigged in your favour and I’m left defenseless
As your tear into my dignity and shame me for simply being a woman
Why do you shift the blame when I’ve been violated and pile accusations on me
Asking about, what were you wearing, who were you with, what time was it, are you sure you didn’t ask for it?
Why do you mock my pain and wear it as a badge of honour? Surely what pride is in that?
What do you say about what you call your language of love
That once in while and sometimes everyday,
to remind me of your love you must whip me into shape…literally?
That the scars I endure are a mark of a woman loved in abundance?
Why do my tears give you such pleasure?
I wont stop asking
Because while I live and breathe
Just like you I’m human and to ask for decency is the least in the list of my demands