Weak.

Prey.

Woman.

That is how they see me.

To be stalked,

to be silent,

to be torn.

Unable to fight back,

these words belong to each other.

Unable to be separated,

these words

define me.

They are unacceptable.

Why should I be seen as prey

when the predator

is the one who defines the word?

I don’t see myself as much of a feminist,

but you called me prey.

You said,

Anytime you're alone, you're prey for a man to hurt.

As if being hunted

is a fate I must carry.

As if hurting

is a thing men simply do.

Unchangeable.

Accepted.

It is unacceptable.

Touch me,

and I will fight

like the wildest storm man has seen.

Hurt me,

and I will leave

irreversible marks.

I am not prey.

You play with fire

when you follow me silently.

You play with fire

when you call me slut.

You play with fire

when you say my emotions

cannot be trusted.

My mother laughs

that I care about women’s rights.

She calls me naive

for not particularly liking men.

She believes one will sweep me off my feet,

change my mind.

Maybe she's right.

Maybe a man will sweep me off my feet.

But he will not

change my mind.

To win me,

he must prove

he’s different.

I am worth

more than a shallow promise.

I told her,

If I get married, he’ll do the laundry.

I hate laundry.

She said,

You’ll do it.

Because she does everything:

She makes the money.

She washes the dishes.

She sweeps the floor.

She feeds the dogs.

She makes the dinner.

She vacuums.

She scrubs the bathroom.

I refuse.

A man who will be with me

will do the work equally.

I will do the dishes.

He will do the laundry.

Sometimes I’ll cook.

Sometimes he will.

I am not

made

to carry everything.

We support each other

in every way,

or no way

at all.

Weak.

Prey.

Woman.

Finally,

I am angry.