I am more than a body , a man’s roving eyes would see
To be shamed or disparaged
When unseen hands would touch me;
I would shed my modesty then
Every strip of it,
I will not hold on to my chaste being-
To drive his craven lust
I would be not be the laid, to crown his prowess or virility
Nor would I shrink or shy away, with that nudity
There never could be a victim, when it’s a fierce little girl in me
To fight the fabric that straitjackets a woman
The clichés, the conventions, the conforming,
If this clothing were to be ripped
Will Rape still be a dictum of his victory?
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