You're screaming

When I'm really talking about how it hurts, how it bothers me, how it shows.

But still, I'm SCREAMING that I'm a woman and every day my body likes to remind me that I'm a walking clock. So they tell me that I’m HOWLING, so I better go with a ball in my mouth because men are close and never with not ever and impossible should they recognize the pain that is hidden in my body.

So I must ask in whispers if my butt looks okay, I must speak in tongue twisters and codes if anyone has an extra pocket in their purse to share. And I must speak in joys and congratulations when one claims to have a sister, and finally, I can unload the fatigue of once a month when I’m more than me.

And I scream because it's my biology, but it's daring of me to say, “What do I care? I am human, I am your equal, why should I be careful?” And they answer me with their finger on my lips because it is a grave secret that I must not show that we bow down to this torture that always turns me into strangers of jokes about broken porcelain dolls.

And I’m hysterical, tearful, sensitive, and crazy, but always silent because I should never say “Does it show?” In a voice that would make them realize that I am more than a sex object.

TA.