Her value is not a composite of
The number of wrinkles on her face
And the height of her stilettos
Or the inches of her waist
And the circumference of her butt
Or the number of men she took to bed
And the number of men she didn’t.
She knows exactly what she wants,
And she refuses to give a fuck.
She is a whispered fervor
Whose body is a temple,
Who is neither to be “had”
Nor requires to be “protected.”
She is a composite of contradictions
The gentle warmth of the fire
And it’s burning intensity
The softness of water
And the violent lashing of the sea
She’s so much more than just “pretty”
(To begin with, pretty is such an ugly word.)
She is one of the illusive Goddesses
Who you named hurricanes after,
Who can be homemakers and ego-wreckers,
Who can instill both fear and compassion in your heart,
Who always know the truth much before they decide to ask,
Whose politeness will often come with intelligent irony underneath
(Alas, all well-behaved bitches also have teeth),
And who despite generations of you trying
Will always be too multitudinous for your simplified stereotyping.
And who the hell are you
To give her the right to choose, which she was born with
Or wolf-whistle at her
When you’re more of a paltry mouse than a wolf
Or to say she needs a man,
When god knows, she’s more complete than you’ll ever be.
Oh, and if you think her mouth is made for kissing
You’re dangerously wrong, my friend.
It’s made for articulate revolutions of passion
Which will one day change the way even you look at the world.
-Tannisha Avarrsekar
Tannisha Avarrsekar 