Clueless Ink

I’m furious.

Furious to be a girl,

a woman,

to have a vagina,

like that alone is an invitation.

Why can’t I walk to a bar in a new country

without calculating every step, every shadow, every streetlamp?

Why do we have to choose between safety and spontaneity?

Why do I have to share my location

just to feel a little more in control of my own life?

Why can’t we have it both ways?

Why is freedom always chained to fear?

I bleed between my legs

like a monthly reminder

that I was made to be uncomfortable.

Made to be patient.

Made to admire, never to stare.

I’m furious.

So I’ll ask:

Why can’t you control the thing between your legs?

Why must you ruin a moment,

a minute,

a memory,

with your persistence, your entitlement,

your need to dominate space that was never yours?

Why can’t you just let us be?

Why is that so hard?

Leave us alone.

All of you.

And if not all,

then those who see it,

feel it,

hate it,

must make it better.

Easier.

Fairer.

Because we’re tired of surviving,

tired of thinking through every step.

We deserve to live.

Freely as you do.