What makes me a woman?

Is it the tender pink fat droplets on my chest

Which I need to cover up lest I provoke the man

Who cannot control his flesh

And demands to exert control

Over that which was never his?

Is it the peachy handfuls on my backside

Swaying and teasing and tantalising

The need for clothes to hug your curves

As if you are an acoustic guitar

Waiting for your strings to be played with.

Is it the black, sensual mane of hair on my head

Flittering and fluttering and flirting

Frolicking in harmony with the wind

Neverending- which I cannot chop off in fear

Of people labelling me as something I’m not.

Is it the blue bottomless oceans

In between shores of lashes

Deep, profound, mysterious. Engulfing.

Can I dance with the sand around them,

Or would I be asking for it?

Or is it the red undulating along my legs

Every month reminding me that my body

Has failed yet again

To make the circle of life go round

And give to Earth what is rightfully hers?

My body is not mine to enjoy.

Is it because I am a woman?