I'm Not Mad At You 

I’m not mad at you

or at the ways I’ve had to constrict my life

to fit the mould

you shoved me into at birth -

makeshift shields out of layers of clothes,

travel by daylight just to make it back home -

I’m not mad.

I’m not mad at you

or about your intrusive touch,

at family reunions,

at the back of the bus -

I’m not mad you touched me with your eyes,

fed me through software just to skin me alive -

I’m not mad.

I’m not mad at you

because you’re now writing a story

of how my kind are all tainted

and we’ve all lost the glory

of women past, who’d lick men’s boots clean

without making a sound, we’re now crimson red and proud -

I’m not mad.

I'm not mad at you, I'm not mad

at the war or the rape

or the blood or the death

or the ticking time bomb you attached to my neck -

I’m not mad,

neither was she -

but we now see you for who you are -

you said the quiet part out loud:

we’re all fair game

on the hunting grounds of patriarchy.