You patted me.
You grabbed me, you groped me,
You reduced my humanity into
Two circles and an inverted
Triangle. You mangled my
Skin with the acidity of
Your touch, you unwanted,
Unrequested touch, a worm
Among the roses. I was fifteen
The first time you pinched
My bum; eighteen when you
Put your scrawny hand over
My leg, as part of a friendly
Job related talk; twenty-one
When you halted at the bus stop,
With your ridiculously big car, an
Invited me to the hotel, unfazed
By my school books and the
Fact that you didn’t know my name.
You don’t care about names.
Nor about my soul, nor about myself,
Even as we are part of the same species
And share culture, values, life,
You have never seen me for who I am.
I am your mother.
Your sister, your daughter, your bestie,
Every woman who ever walked,
Whom you ever loved, is me.
And they all revolt within when
You refuse to see me
As a worthy human being,
I am not your game, your bet,
Your thing, your five minutes
Of satisfaction, your tribal
Right to chase and hunt.
This, my friend, has got to stop.
I don’t care about your boy’s club,
Your locker room talk, your
Urgent needs, the weight of
Your balls, the size of your penis,
The fact that you don’t speak to
Your wife and are still together
Only because of the kids.
I belong to my own club,
The I’ve been Touched club,
And we are closing the doors.
Not more women will
Need to cross them. No more
Women will weep their story,
Wondering if they will be believed.
Your time is up
And I stand in front of you, whole,
Vagina and breasts and brain and heart
And legs, and eyes, and ears, and arms,
And dreams and ambitions and talents
And skills. I stand in front all
Of you, complete and unafraid.
And you shall harm
Not one more mother, nor sister,
Nor daughter, nor friend.
Not one woman, any woman,
Will you ever hurt again.
The time is up.
We are no longer alone.
And we are telling you,
In no uncertain terms: not one more.
Not one more.
Not one more.