Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

To Men Who Catcall

A man with no manners called me rude,

after shouting something about my boobs,

and being wounded by the sharp edges of my sweary response.

I assume he’ll heal,

from being told to fuck off,

but my body is full of scars,

spoken onto my skin,

by men,

who don’t know how to keep their hands,

or their thoughts to themselves.

I haven’t been human,

for a very long time.

Humiliated,

hurt,

dehumanised,

so,

for the very first time,

after decades of delicately dashing away,

in the hopes I wouldn’t be followed,

fucked against my will,

by a man who makes clear he has no concern for consent,

I told him to fuck off.

Ever since I was ten,

and probably before,

in the bank of bad experiences my mind tries to protect me from,

I always tried to escape,

thinking my life was enough.

but this time,

I decided that life without dignity was not a life at all,

so I told him to fuck off,

and I watched him crumble under the weight of his ego,

knowing that I was a warrior,

and he was the first victim of my spoken sword.

Perhaps,

if he didn’t want to be sworn at,

he shouldn’t have been speaking so provocatively,

or wearing a smug smile,

that made me think he was up for being sworn at.

Perhaps,

if he didn’t want to be sworn at,

he shouldn’t have been out,

all by himself,

with nobody to protect him,

perhaps,

he should learn self defence,

to keep himself safe,

from girls who take no shit.

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