To be a woman

Is to have soft skin,

To silk akin.

Is to be branded,

With freckles speckled.

Is to have shiny locks,

To hold bouquets,

To blink green eyes

Like feathers of peacocks.

Is to adorn herself with jewellery,

To swirl in a new dress,

To dance with buffoonery,

And her body, undressed.

Is to have cherry lips,

Hair strands held in clips,

In a spring filled with berries.

Is going where the soul carries.

To be a woman

Is to dot your I’s with hearts

And to tap blush across the cheeks,

Is to share lipstick and glitter

Of colours that tease and glimmer.

Is to share life stories.

To save awkward letters,

To make heaps of lists;

Is to compliment other charming ladies,

Or simply smile when your eyes meet.

Is to protect the sisterhood

And be connected with the moon.

Is to talk of feminism at any age.

And to make art that’s just theirs.

Is to notice palindromes, But judge her naked curves. Is to cry facing a mirror, While smudging vermillion.

To be a woman

Is to be preyed upon.

Is feeling empathy for your aggressor

And blame yourself until dawn.

Is to let your inner child embrace you.

Is to be validated only by beauty

And let others interrupt.

Is to be seen as puny,

“She’s only climbing ‘cuz she’s a slut”.

Is to be restlafess about perfection,

Is to forgive deprecation,

The pain which affects us

In the search for self-affection.

Is to thank too much

And say sorry even more.

Is to be insufficient and unequal

Even in fantasy sequels.

Is to be reduced

To meat.

Is to go out, all spruced,

And be harassed wearing a coat.

Is to wish to be safe just like some are.

To be a woman

Is to be a subject of study.

Is to live on a journey,

Finding a meaning for everything

And making sense of nothing.