shrinking
'you aren't like most girls',
he blurts, as I tarnish my
papyrus notebook filled with
tenacious opinions with a blotch
of ink.
what does he mean?
the abbreviated skirt draping
every remorseful inch of my thighs
has a voice of its own,
even though it gets deafened by the
friends who jeer with statements of
old-school patriarchy,
and how I should mandatorily cover up
my thighs with the haven of a jacket,
once the place gets too crowded.
'shhh',
my mother hushes me down,
as I begin to rebel against the overt
sexism on the dining table,
when the relatives come over.
I have been shushed ever since,
even the curse 'Imperio' would be
of no use here.
every other day,
my social media feed colonizes
an overtone of justice,
which gets easily ridiculed by
the prominent misogyny
that paves its way everywhere.
'feminism is not a dirty word'
I vociferate,
internally though,
as my testosterone-impounded
friends casually joke about its
insignificance.
why is it that every time I step out
of the house,
the guilt of intoxicating my soul
with joy peers over me,
glaring at me with its diabolical
eyes.
women in my society have been
shrinking for centuries,
but when will this end?
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