Budding Thorns

Women are the world’s walking targets. The bullseyes of budding breasts dodge darts and stares. We are pummeled with shame from the onset of menstruation. The blood that flows so naturally, like breathing, is taboo. A secret until the lifeblood bleeds through, moving the bullseye from her breasts to her backside.

We are condemned for any choice we make for ourselves. Buy lipstick to plump our lips, but not that particular shade of sunburnt whore. Paint your nails, but not that shade of prostitute. The same color that will stain the sheets after he’s had his way with you. If I dye my hair, I’m high maintenance. If I let it turn grey, I have given up on my looks.

Our skirts can’t be too short or our shirts cut too low. We don’t want to distract the boys. The boys that can’t let us walk down the street alone, without our keys protruding through a tightened fist ready for an assault. We are always on guard.

Why don’t we report rape? We don’t want to be portrayed as a victim. In this way we are raped again and again. Our character splayed out on the exam table for everyone to poke and prod. We feel like it is our fault. A false sense of guilt builds a home in our heads.

So we are quiet. Resolute. We pack it away with all the other gropes and catcalls in our lives because we are the most pretty when we are silent. Silent flowers screaming to be heard. They pick our petals and crush the leaves but our divine roots will regenerate. Our budding thorns will sharpen and tear you apart.