Dear Mr. John, I see you in the corner a stalking predator that looks more like a prey.
You clutch your fists to refrain what your hands wish to say.
Your eyes entangled with how my curvy hips seem to sway.
You must forgive me Mr John because I had no hand in my being created this way.
When you look at me, why you seem to forget how to pray
All your sense of propriety seems to run away
And to my dismay
I am the one to blame?
It is my body, that is supposedly the catalyst for the thoughts you cannot tame?
So you write it in a book and call it the law.
You pass it to every Lord and Dame
And Each day
My mind is trained
To look at my own vessel in disdain
To see it as an object that inspires sin and therefore must be hidden away
Now I am called a new name
Plain the Jane
The girl that always looks the same.
I live in garments of excess fabric
I am told to cover my hair
And taught to abstain from painting my face.
Your strategy, to make me undesirable even to my own self
But it is a tragedy, you believe that if I am made unappealing
Somehow it would aid you control your thinking?
Why am I punished for your inability to control your thoughts?
Your inability to control your own lust?
Even today, in a different age
It's the same play, just a different stage
We say we are progressive
But when my sisters cry out in the night
As they kick and scream putting up a fight
When they come to you with bruised faces and tears in their eyes
You ask not who was the culprit
But rather what was her outfit
And this seems to be our reality
To live in a world where our bodies are offensive
All because MR JOHN cannot control himself.