I have travelled the world
This time I did not collect postcards
I have travelled the world,
This time I collected every tale of being a woman
I collected every story of my brownness
I collected every injury every word every glance,
Every unwanted feeling
Every vulnerability
Every fucking hurt
That happens to a woman that has the audacity to travel the world
Alone
Every catcall, every unfamiliar hand groping the back of my body like it’s a no mans land of warring nations.
Every man who followed me home fearlessly soldiering on, attempting to conquer unconquered streets.
No. I am not brave
Bravery is not a constant state
That is complacency.
Familiarity
Routine
daily “bravery” is not commendable, its myopic. Its unnecessary
It isn’t laudable, its warning sign.
I am not here to be a constant signpost of bravery, I am here to be
Sane.
I am used to it
I am familiar with the
Constant
Possibility
That my womanhood
Means less to him
That my breasts are a plaything
And my clitoris does not have
More nerve endings than he can comprehend
I am familiar with the faces
of every person in a room that looks like they can help
Every exit in a streetcorner of thirty different nations
So to the man who will have me next
If I flinch when you touch me
If I stay unmoved when we make love
If I analyze your every word with the precision of a surgeon.
Its not you.
Its because it is hard to know
When my body deserves pleasure
And my skin is soft again.
postcolonialmigrant 