to be a woman is to perform to learn to dress for men, to perform for the male gaze to be asked by aunts, “when am i going to get grandchildren?” and to be told by uncles that ive grown in all the right places im not even able to look at the clothes that hot hands had burnt through touching, feeling, squeezing remembering their hands on me i don't want revenge, i just want to take a shower his lips curl into a whistle as i walk the street “looking good, baby” im wearing sweats and a hoodie “smile more!” make me laugh. i don't feel like it right now, i say “it'll be quick, please” he replies back and i'm left feeling disgusted the next day maybe i'll take another shower. scrolling on my phone, a cute video of a little girl I go to check the comments “game is game” “if she can bleed she can breed” i close my phone, scared what this world has come to my friend tells a story about how she got ***** and crazy enough, we all relate and with girls we've never even met before bonding over our **** cases “don’t sit like that,” says my grandmother “it's not lady-like.” it doesn't matter how far i slouch in my seat how much i manspread even if its not lady-like, he’ll do it anyways because he takes ******* as an invitation even from a young girl who doesn't even know how to count all the way to fifty “dont tell your parents– it's our secret” hands cover my mouth as i tell myself it's normal this is what family does, what men do and suddenly i'm too afraid to look at my own father i talk to a guy, he's funny and then he makes a **** joke i thought you were one of the good ones foolish i live each day in fear is it safe to walk out? no, we can't live there the ****** assault cases are high. when will we ever be free? when will women be equal to men and not just equal to pleasure? filled with rage, i remind myself i cannot do anything. because to be a woman is to perform