A poem: ‘My underwear does not speak for me, does not give consent…’
Swallow your indignation,
your desire, your disgust.
My body is mine, not yours.
My underwear does not speak for me,
does not give consent,
and though you thrust it up in contempt,
its lace is coal black, not scarlet.
Spit out my name.
It came to me in a pink bassinet.
I feel it like a slap to my cheek,
Burning red, a brand: Woman,
cursed to eternal pain
for daring to taste a bite of fruit.