Poetry

For women who have suffered death at the hands of a delinquent society

The door didn’t bang itself, I did

I was sick of its silence

Tired of it not making any sounds

like it was okay with its mediocre life

of no one wanting the noise;

the irritating sound of a talking door

of yakking hinges

disturbing a sleeping society

 

You see,

This is exactly why I banged the door

So I can finally stir the peace;

greatly annoy the insides of reckless autocrats;

of dictators, self-ordained monarchs of being

 

Society slinks within us,

not sleeping,

Introducing some forms of darkness

that we accept because we ourselves

have no idea how lit we are,

burning, with some fierce fires of our own

So we die.

 

Like ten years ago when I wouldn’t

wear anything that exposed my shoulders

A bone stretched beneath my neck,

so long and deep, it was called ugly

 

Like ten years ago when being skinny

meant I couldn’t have friends

I wasn’t attractive enough

Not woman enough

 

Like ten years ago when preposterous doctrines

stitched my lips and forbade me to speak my mind

 

Like ten years ago when I was okay dying

so the world could be at peace with its venal self

 

The door didn’t bang itself, I did

I have started fitting

all the clothes that were labelled loose

 

So today, when a man walks up to me

and tells me I am showing too much flesh

I can say fuck off

I thought you said I had no skin

That I was not desirable enough

That I couldn’t wake a man

because I myself was one

 

Society pours its weight on us,

burying us,

freeing itself of its insecurities

We are left struggling

under some insane law

which hasn’t even been passed

 

The door didn’t bang itself, I did

I realized the space my silence had caused

had labelled me a woman with no voice

No color

No self

 

The door didn’t bang itself, I did

One day I woke up

Spotted a society that never sleeps

Never cooks its own food

Does nothing

Just eating

Leeching…

 

Author’s Note: Many thanks to my writer friend @amegaxi for helping me edit this piece.

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8 thoughts on “For women who have suffered death at the hands of a delinquent society

  1. d says:

    Repetition is used to great power in this stirring poem. It’s brave with vulnerability — I envy you that direct courage. When you bang the door, it bangs for more; it bangs for all those you adore; it bangs all the way down the hall; for the hidden and the small.

    Liked by 1 person

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