Double-Edged Knife
Born a girl,
the world hands you a blade—
sharp on both sides.
A weapon they call protection,
but we all know,
it’s a punishment.
From the moment we open our eyes,
they undress us with theirs.
“Smile,” they say,
but not too much—don’t make it an invitation.
Be Thin, but not too thin—don’t let your ribs show.
Be Smart, but never smarter than him—don’t make him feel small.
Be strong, but don’t intimidate—don’t make him angry.
Be everything, but never too much—don’t forget who you belong to.
Born a girl,
we learn early:
our skin is currency,
our silence is expected,
our fear is ignored.
We remember:
every hand that lingered too long,
every “accidental” touch on a crowded train,
every drink we guarded like it was our last lifeline.
Every catcall that burned our cheeks,
every pair of eyes that stripped us bare
and left us hollow.
Every no that wasn’t enough.
Every yes we were forced to say.
We walk faster in the dark,
counting steps to safety.
We memorize exits like prayers.
we grip our keys so tight
they left marks in our palms—
marks we wished we could leave on them.
Our bodies are battlegrounds.
Our voices are drowned out by their war.
Our worth is measured in compliance,
in how well we can stay small and obedient.
But we’ve been forged in fire,
hardened by fear,
tempered by rage.
And the blade they handed us—
the one meant to keep us quiet,
meant to keep us weak—
we sharpen it on every scar they left.
We carry it not to obey,
but to remind them:
It cuts both ways.
And when we wield it,
we won’t miss.