Breast ironing ( an appeal to my mother to realise I need to be a women on my terms))

Being a girl
and growing up in Africa
is bad
its in the minds of
many
and that has made me sad
sad, because my own mother
has done this to me
used a heated hammer on my nubile breasts
you see

she thinks that as I grow
my breasts will grow
and then some males
will look at me
in ways that mean
I walk the darker trails
trails of sexual nature
when ofcourse its in her mind
and in the prejudice of men
who habitually are blind

to the beauty that
surrounds them
our bodies are aglow
with wonder and with magic
its is when
and how we grow
the pain of it
mentally and physically
for me the cut and thrust
of bashing at my nipples
its terribly unjust

burning, chafing, scraping
oh! mum I feel such pain
the agony that you create
so why now do you rain
blows upon my person
me your pubescent soul
hardly out of nappies
but ready for my role

in taking on some lurid eyes
of anything but gentle men
who feel the urge
and try to purge
the spirit kind of when
they see me
I must understand
not hide myself away
and not allow disfigurement
of this sick old fashioned way

harrassment it is out there
and rape, is out there too
but transforming me into some sad
deformed soul will not do
some might still be seeing
me as relevant, and such woe
it so does do my head in
when she says she loves me so

but practices this torture
this evil still on me
I’d rather take my chances
than be bludgeoned forcefully
I’d rather be a women
and be respected by
the kind of men
there must be
who will love me till I die

love me as a women
and in my soul stay warm
respect and be sincere to me
and avid of my form
not covert me but share
with me
our bodies and our souls
and let me take my place
in life
confident of my roles