My head hurts
My body prickles
the crickets slow dance
in front of my eyes
their buzz close off the accusations.
Why was she wearing red on her lips?
why was she wearing such a short skirt?
Why did she talk to boys?
Why did she speak up?
My clothes too short
My lipstick too red
My earrings too dangly
My heels too kittenish
I loiter alone
They call me a slut.
I was married off when I was 16
I haven’t talked back to anyone
since I was 12
When my father took me off school
To look after my brothers
My mother taught me to cook
and clean
And look after the house
She said my husband was my god
and i worshipped him dutifully
they call me a
good girl.
The heavy boots
ricochets off my heart
the soldiers march past
in the night
the rebels come
their boots are torn
but no less cruel
their fatigues are dirty
but no less rough
whose turn is it next?
Take the women
that will teach them a lesson
take the women
that's the easiest
revenge
I could be a slut
or a good girl
I could be white
or black or brown
I could be old or young
or unborn
I am the one who's torn to pieces
in a war
raped by soldiers
killed by patriarchy
There’s no home for me.
Author Bio:
Nilanjana Bhowmick is a poet based in New Delhi, India. Her poems traverses gender justice, social change, politics and certain nebulous regions of the mind. Follow her poetry on instagram @sleepless_in._delhi. Twitter @nilanjanab
My body prickles
the crickets slow dance
in front of my eyes
their buzz close off the accusations.
Why was she wearing red on her lips?
why was she wearing such a short skirt?
Why did she talk to boys?
Why did she speak up?
My clothes too short
My lipstick too red
My earrings too dangly
My heels too kittenish
I loiter alone
They call me a slut.
I was married off when I was 16
I haven’t talked back to anyone
since I was 12
When my father took me off school
To look after my brothers
My mother taught me to cook
and clean
And look after the house
She said my husband was my god
and i worshipped him dutifully
they call me a
good girl.
The heavy boots
ricochets off my heart
the soldiers march past
in the night
the rebels come
their boots are torn
but no less cruel
their fatigues are dirty
but no less rough
whose turn is it next?
Take the women
that will teach them a lesson
take the women
that's the easiest
revenge
I could be a slut
or a good girl
I could be white
or black or brown
I could be old or young
or unborn
I am the one who's torn to pieces
in a war
raped by soldiers
killed by patriarchy
There’s no home for me.
Author Bio:
Nilanjana Bhowmick is a poet based in New Delhi, India. Her poems traverses gender justice, social change, politics and certain nebulous regions of the mind. Follow her poetry on instagram @sleepless_in._delhi. Twitter @nilanjanab
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