My body is dangerous

To myself

And others.

A weapon

That I must sheath in

Unprovocative clothing,

Actions that avoid attention,

Agreeable opinions.

Why are little girls told

To cover their bare shoulders in the heat of summer

For fear of distracting the boys?

Why are women who reach out to the night,

With outstretched arms, glittery gazes and short dresses

Blamed for hungry looks and greedy hands;

For bruised skin and damaged souls.

Why must we carry the blame for our bodies?

Why are our bodies being blamed?

Clothes have become the voice of our character.

Delicate strips of fabric that stitch “asking for it” across my ass.

Our bodies canvases, a blank sheet waiting to be stained with the ink of your disrespect.

I should not feel embarrassed by my menstruation.

I should not need to apologize for my anatomy.

I should not need to ask your permission to exist.

I am my own weapon of mass destruction, strength embedded in the roundness of my hips and the sharpness of my words.

I am struggle and strength wrapped in the bark of an old oak that has risen from the earth and stood tall for decades.

I am the reflection of those who have come before me, and I am the hope of what is to come.

I am no one's tool for objectification.

This body is my own.