She has been branded by the scarlet letters of men, to learn the definitions of choice in a world full of noise, twisted tongue who belongs nowhere near the temple of her body, in which she is the God, the valley which curves her bosom was hers to touch, bare bones or short skirt, it’s not your right to judge. She ripe with liberty, holds her value of trinity. You do not know of her trudge steps, or the things she bares on her chest. Her womb of unmapped terrain, must have you lost in the rain. Her vulnerability was never a curse, nonetheless society had it all perverse.
Her worth is not measured on her bedsheets, but measure it well by her doing of good deeds. Her nails is not untainted by red, hair to long but could as well be shorten instead. Feet not glued to the kitchen floor, prison of four walls, behind steal looked door. Call her a whore, beat her some more. But, before she will kneel down to the law written by men, she will march into hell, again and again.
You do not get to cry over my choice to make, let alone burden me with your
words of mistakes. You do not get to judge, what I choose to lose, because the bleeding of my womb is not your steps in my shoes.