She
was wearing that skirt
Blue
and white sky on it
Slightly
above her knees
And
guess what?
Her
very own character was decided,
Judged
by people she didn’t even know
She
was called names
Bitch,
slut, whore
And
what do they mean?
Who
is a slut?
A
woman with the attributes of a man
She
cannot wear what she wants to
She
cannot behave as she wishes to
She
cannot laugh freely
Is
she allowed to breathe at least?
Just
if she’s not judged for it
It
were never you to be judged, you men!
Why
aren’t you judged for those words on your mouth
If
not for the pieces of clothing on your body?
Your
are not an angel in disguise
And
she, definitely is not a demon in paradise
So
who decides who is a bitch or a dog or a slut?
When
everyone stands on the same platform?
Nobody
is a master and no one’s a slave
Nobody
is a prostitute and no one’s a sage
They
are all humans
No,
not even that
They
are all mere creatures with a little brain
Which
they use to find ways to slut shame others
And
their brain, their primary asset
Does
not tell them
‘Everyone
is entitled to their own opinion.’
And
so they become what they speak of
They
become their own demons and angels
Their
own friend and foe
They
spend sleepless nights
Trying
to know themselves
By
thinking about other men and women
Their
own character is lost
and
so they judge others
Men
judge women
And
women judge men
But
never themselves
They
feel more accomplished
By
building walls
Walls
of feminism and of masculinity
The
one who is not feminine is not a woman
One
who is not masculine is not a man
And
who exactly is a man or a woman?
The
ones who are loyal to their gender roles?
Roles
decided and designated by the same so-called men and women nobody
knows?
And
above everything else, who are humans?
Gods
in disguise! As they say?
Or
just flesh and bones?
No,
they are none of themselves
They
are more than flesh and bones
And
less than Gods
They
are creatures with a purpose to fulfill in their lives
Which
they often loose sight of
The
ones who get lost
Who
wander in infinity
Reaching
no where
Having
no destination
They
raise their voices
Yes,
they know how to do that
But
they do it for themselves
And
against each other
Taking
pride in what they do
Not
realizing that they would be the soil
They
have risen from
And
then? They keep repeating the same mistakes
Because
man is the maker of his own destiny
And
mistakes are the makers of a man
