Covered up legs, I can’t wear shorts,
because showing off my skin distorts.
I can’t go out, late at night,
because my body may catch a bad false sight.
I can’t have friends, four males with me,
that makes me a slut, as a whore they will see.
And my tee should be up, my cleavage must hide,
else the men with lust will take it as an invite.
Girl I am, a human and a daughter,
but everyday with eyes, I find respect slaughter.
They stare at my breasts like they are toys, not organs,
the slip of my scarf seems to be a chance.
At work or at school, if my skirt gets stained,
with compliments of shame, I’ll be chained.
And at a bus with crowd, if my bra strap goes out,
their hands will become smart without a second doubt.
My life stands a threat, if I reject a guy,
girls shouldn’t be bold, we should always be shy.
The size of my mouth is measured for blow,
staring at my skin, look how the eye glows,
so my mother stays scared and my father grows strict,
for enjoying my life, they will always restrict.
The costume in my body decides my life,
My hymen should be safe till I become a wife.
Parisha Dutta is a Bengali poet, writer and a blogger. She currently resides in Guwahati, Assam, India.
Taken from Women Chapter