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.