It doesn’t matter.

There she is; again,

Feeling like a stray dog with an open wound.

Any dirt or fly can self-invite to sit on,

Or even settle down.

The same fly that indulged in faeces a while ago.

The only thing she is able,

Is to stare and shoo,

And in vain.

For who is to bother,

What a woman feels.

‘Cause the ‘beasts’ of this world,

Can do things as they please,

All a woman can, is feel vulnerable,

And shoo them; again.

For him, they are ‘innocent’ pleasures.

But for her, she feels violated, desecrated.

He thinks it’s his prerogative,

To tickle; To tease; To touch;

To do whatsoever he deems right, or even wrong.

As if she is a fallen withered flower,

Even when the flower could actually voice the 2-lettered word,

It doesn’t matter, does it?

For, does a woman have feelings at all !?

Or even a soul, for that matter?

To him, she is some food left open,

To taste at least, if not devour.

He may brush his body past hers; deliberately.

Lay his hands on her skin; repulsively.

Anywhere; Any place; Anytime.

The Bus; The College; The Office.

Even when she says NO,

It doesn’t matter, does it?

He can still touch her,

Inappropriately.

It’s not a rape. It’s just a grope;

It doesn’t matter.

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