my name is “cutie”
because I’m opinionated and it’s just SO strange to find a girl who’s
“pretty AND smart,”
he says.
because my intelligence is somehow linked to the features I was born with.
the books I’ve read, somehow linked to the straightness of my teeth.
the words I’ve written, somehow linked to the colour of my eyes.
my name is “baby”
because I walked passed wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt
and it was just so provocative
that their tongues could not resist the urge
to lash out and breathe fire
at the 14 year old girl who looked down at her feet.
my name is “you asked for this”
because I wore a dress and
he just could not control his scalding hands
from melting my skin
and all I wanted to do was dance.
my name is “independent”
said scathingly from a grandmother’s lips
because I am too liberated and
that’s why I will never find a husband.
Because a diamond ring on my finger is equivalent to my value.
The length of my skirt, an indicator of my consent.
The visibility of my figure, a welcoming sign.
my name is “cutie”
because I have no name in this society.
in bloom 