There's A War To Be Won

It’s 2011, I’m 14 and I’ve just a confession. 
It’s my first glimpse of female oppression. 
Not completely sure why but I have an urge to cry.
I look into my mum’s eyes, she seems fine. I’m not. 
All of a sudden time has stood still.
My urge to cry has become a silent shrill. 
How is she so calm?
She must have a skill. 
You see, my mum has just told me,
she was raped by a man, at only 5. 
And she was to young to know why it ached between her thighs,
so her brain tricked her so now she remembers a beehive. 
But all I remember is she was only 5. 

It’s 2013, I’m 15 and boys look at me outside the canteen. 
Hey mum, thanks for the genes. I’m 15 but feeling 18.
That is, until a man more than double my age 
‘hollers’ at me from his dirty, what van. 
All of a sudden I don’t want to be seen. 
I want to cover my body, from my hair to my spleen. 
He’s old enough to be my dad.
Doesn’t he know that’s bad?
It doesn’t make you look rad.
It makes you look like a Paedophile. 

It’s 2016, I’m 18 and Room 274 will always 
make me feel like a whore. 
Fortunately, unfortunately I’m not only 5.
I know why it aches between my thighs.
Because two men took me away from my night,
drugged me and raped me and I could barely fight. 

It’s 2017, I’m 19 and I’m dying. 
IT HAPPENED AGAIN! And I was so close to flying. 
I guess I should ‘Be Brave’,’Be Strong’,
But according to the media I was in the wrong. 
‘Okay, be more positive’, hmmm, let’s think. 
Well this time, for the most part, I was unconscious but now I’m even more 
self-conscious, more semi-conscious, more cautious and my subconscious is fucking killing me. 
At least he didn’t have an accomplice but fuck, I’m exhausted. 

It’s 2017, I’m 20 and doing much better. 
I’m kinda dating this guy, he buys me dinner. 
He’s much older than me and he drinks whiskey neat.
And he’s paying for everything. This adult thing, it’s not cheap. 
He wants to have sex with me, I just wanna drink with me. 
But he says I can’t say no to him, this much I owe to him.
He buys my dinner so I have to blow him. 
And he’s ‘only a man’ and these things he ‘just needs’,
But I’m a person
And I’m filled with unease.

It’s 2017 and I’m following my dreams. 
I’m back on top and feel like a Queen. 
I’ve had my share, wore my heart on my sleeve. 
I’m invincible and SO FUCKING NAIVE. 
I’ve earned my protection, eternally clean. 
Until a man in a club gets his hands down my pants.
But I didn’t want none of that, I just wanted to dance. 
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THIS HAPPENED TO ME?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WAS MY FAULT?
You don’t put your hands on me. 
You don’t know what my body’s been through. 
I’m supposed to be safe now, I earned it. 

It’s 2018 and I’ve realised nobody is safe as long as she is alive. 
And every friend that I have has a story like mine.
And the world tells us we should take it as a compliment. 
Do I look fucking complimented? 
No! I’m beat down and broken. 
Angry but no longer unspoken. 
Because heroes like Ashley, McKayla, Gaga and Ali, 
Remind me this is the beginning. It is not the finale. 
And that’s why I write and that’s why we rally. 
It’s Olympians and a medical resident.
And not one FUCKING word from the man who is President. 
It’s about closed doors and hidden secrets and legs in stillettos, 
From the Hollywood hills to the schemes and the ghettos. 
When babies are dragged from the arms of teen mothers,
And child brides cry globally under the covers. 
Who don’t have a voice on any magazine covers. 

But none of us are free until all of us are free. 
So love your neighbour, please treat her kindly. 
Ask her her story, you’ll damn right she’ll have one. 
Ask her and then shut up and listen. 
Black, Asian, poor, wealthy, trans, cis, Muslim, Christian. 
Listen. Listen. 
And THEN YELL at the top of your lungs.
Be a voice for all those who have prisoner tongues. 
For the people who had to grow up way to young;
There are songs to be sung,
There is work to be done,
You know, there’s a war to be won.