Her Choice

Once, they whispered behind closed doors,
women bent over in back rooms,
their bodies a battleground
with no voice to speak,
no safe place to fall.
In ancient times, midwives knew the way—
herbs passed in secret,
knowledge shared in shadows
because the world wasn’t ready
for a woman’s choice to live as her own.
Bent metal, desperate hands,
a hanger twisted into a weapon,
cold, sharp, a last resort.
It pierced the body like a scream,
cutting through the flesh of choices
no one should have to make.
Blood flowed where life once grew,
and with it, dreams faded,
silence swallowing the pain
of futures that would never come.
 Then came the judges, the lawmakers,
their pens heavy with control.
They wrote her body into the law,
denied her voice,
forgot her name,
turned her into a symbol, a sin.
But still, she fought.
She marched in the streets,
her feet sore from the weight of history,
her hands clutching signs
that spoke for the women before her,
the ones who had no words.
From alleyways to courtrooms,
from whispered names to loud demands,
the struggle etched into time.
But it’s still her body, her burden,
her future hanging in the balance,
as it has always been.