Fire In Her Palms

Tell her how she is not supposed to sit with her legs open,

Stare at the sky with hope in her heart or 

Speak too loud for someone might get scared of her roar.

Yell at her when she tries to jump towards the clouds 

And cage her with your mind if you cannot with your hands. 

Spell everything that will make her a woman for you. 

Her clothes. Her hair. Her skin. 

Watch her with colors of judgment in your eyes 

Like a watchdog, scathing her with your stare. 

Remind her of her place above the stars but beneath your ego. 

Ignore her when she screams on the street with fire in her palms

“I am a feminist. I am proud to be a woman.” 

Label her as intolerant as her screeches transport you on a guilt trip. 

Advertise her as an emotional wreck 

And then hide how you feel for the rest of your life. 

Laugh at her.

Laugh at the irony. 

Laugh at yourself. 

For she sits in the corner of the room 

With her eyes glued to her laptop screen.

She walks in the market at 2 pm 

Scared that someone might decide to get a little too close. 

She takes the bus ride home 

With her eyes darting in all directions to prevent an unforeseeable foreseeability.

And her blood has been boiling under the facade that she’s put on. 

She sees you worship politicians who openly condemn her being. 

She hears you crack so called locker room jokes without regret 

And yet is silent. 

But her quiet is not weak. 

Her silence does not make her meek. 

She is thunder, she is rain. 

She is the reason for your flesh and your veins. 

She is everything she needs to be.

She is you and she is me.

She is a woman. 



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