Privilege
They say everything is handed to women.
Women are able to be mothers — are able to be loved by men. Women are blessed with boobs and an ass and a sexy figure (unless it’s too big or too small then they’re just ugly).
Women are catcalled. Whistles and stares and compliments so backwards that you think getting insulted would have been better.
Women carry knives arounds. Women fear for their lives every day, wondering when someone is going to stop them in the shadows and reap what they think is theirs to take. At night, women close their blinds, lock their doors — once, twice, sometimes even three times because fear is their friend and it demands carefulness. No mistakes.
At night, they breathe deep in their homes, hearts pattering against their chest like a humming bird in a cage, trapped. There was a man on the corner store; he stared at her like he was a lion and she was the gazelle he was going to have for a meal.
His stare was blank, but the growl that resonated within her was so profound. He didn’t have a claim on her, but it felt like she was chained — like she was cut open, laying on the ground for him to take what he wanted.
She isn’t property, so why did he think she owed him her body? Why did he think she owed him at all?
