You tell me to cover up my skin.
That my laugh should stay coy and my words measured.
You want me to carry myself gracefully for I should be a lady.
My ripped jeans and expressive wardrobe offend your ideals.
My curves are a slippery slope for every man who has sin on his mind.
Because I am the catalyst of all that is forbidden.
You tell me that my biology will entice men and make them desire my body.
You tell me that your honor depends on how much me I allow people to see.
That my legs should stay closed because my hymen is what keeps your honor intact.
That my unbridled attitude should be tamed so your ego remains pristine.
I am not a fragile vase that needs to be held up high on an unreachable shelf.
Do not smear my existence by your questionable comprehension of honor.
My freedom is not a commodity for you to put a price on.
What is this concept you call honor?
A word that you hold so dearly to your existence.
An idea that defines your status as a man in this world.
Tell me, why do you tie your own value as a human being to the choices I make as a woman related by blood to you?
I’m writing my own book.
It’s called, Fuck you, my honor is my own.
Read my words, brother.
Read my freedom, my strength and my soul.
Read my words, father.
Read my battles, my blood and my pride.
I am my own freedom, my own revolution, my own war.