This is a rot that could poison us all.
The ooze of the darkest web, creeping to consume.
It has taken life; in a victim’s costume.
It howls injustice, licks at imaginary hurts;
Supposèd cut into their sought-after skin.
A body is more than the sum of its parts.
A woman is light, and joy, and grace, and art.
Our bodies are not make believe
Interlocking parts and pieces
Inanimate to plough down and destroy.
We own every shard of ourselves.
We are a gift.
It matters not what I am made of.
I am joy, and heaven, and a blinding light.
Far beyond your imagination or line of sight.
Do not try to dream of me or my body.
How dare you even conjure my image for your
You believe that women owe you everything;
their body, their autonomy, their very lives.
In the ancient words of the old and wise:
Go. Fuck. Yourself.